


Bad Things

by Duckyboos



Series: Bitch Better Have My Money [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Parents, Anal Sex, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Barebacking, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bisexual Disaster Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean Winchester, Crime Boss Castiel (Supernatural), Crimes & Criminals, Criminal Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Death, Desk Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Murder Husbands?, Fluff, Gangs, Gangster Castiel, Good Girls AU, Gunplay, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, Infidelity, Kid Fic, M/M, Minor Dorothy Baum/Charlie Bradbury, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Mirror Sex, Money laundering, Murder, Oral Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Partners in Crime, Past Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Robbery, Sarcasm, Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Snark, Tattooed Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Topping from the Bottom, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 63,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Dean is living the life of a middle-class suburbanite. He’s married with a kid and has his own successful business. He even has a house with a white (well, gray) picket fence. Life is pretty good. But then, shit happens--- and well, let’s just say that Dean, Sam, and Charlie don’t handle it in the most conventional of ways, nor do they consider the consequences. Next thing he knows, Dean’s making a deal with the devil wearing an angel's face and he’s at odds with everyone and everything he thought he knew.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Bitch Better Have My Money [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690696
Comments: 593
Kudos: 920
Collections: SPN Best Works, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So last year when season 2 of Good Girls was released on Netflix, I binge-watched the whole thing and then wrote almost 19,000 words of this. I totally forgot about its existence until I was having a clear out on my laptop. I figured I'd maybe have a go at finishing it and post it. So here we are! I have 9 chapters already done, and I'll post a chapter a week, so I'll have plenty of time to get more written (hopefully).
> 
>   
> [ Please please pleaseeeeeee check out the wonderful sexy AF artwork by complexlysimplekiddo ](https://cedesdraws.tumblr.com/post/613697701381603328/bad-things-by-duckyboos-dean-is-living-the)

Everyone’s done stupid shit at some point in their lives. 

Dean’s stupid shit just happens to be a whole lot stupider and shittier than most people’s. 

In chronological order:

1) He got his first serious girlfriend pregnant.

2) He then left said girlfriend and child (admittedly, not aware she was pregnant at the time).

3) He married a man that his brother turned out to be right about; Benny is a d-bag and Dean regrets that he ever met the sorry sack-of-shit, let alone jumped into a relationship with him.

4) He, his brother Sam, and their best friend Charlie robbed the store where Charlie works. 

5) He, his brother Sam, and their best friend Charlie robbed the store where Charlie works and unwittingly stole the money of some big cheese in the local gang scene. 

Stupid shit numbers four and five are very closely linked with stupid shit number three. So whilst it is his fault, it’s not _entirely_ his fault. 

Sam’s supposed to be the smart one and yet the decision to use a bunch of toy guns just to add ‘armed’ and ten years to ‘robbery’ was Sam’s. 

Dean’s mollified at least a little by the fact that he’s not the only dumbass in this family. Despite Sammy’s proclamations to the contrary. 

Still it’s Dean and not Sam who’s standing on Dean's immaculately mowed lawn at 3am, stripey pajamas and slide-on novelty slippers that Ben got him for Father’s Day last year (Benny got a clever mug), breathing in the sweet scent of darkness on the wind. The October night feels more like summer than fall, so the fine tremors running throughout Dean’s body have nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the leader of the aforementioned gang sitting on the picnic table where Ben has left a half-transformed Bumblebee.

Dean hadn’t started off his week expecting to be stared down in his own backyard by a mini mafioso with his feet on the bench, but then again, he hadn’t ever expected that Benny would be so fucking stupid as to lose all of their money through ill-advised poker hands either. 

And seriously, was this man raised in a barn? Who sits on a picnic table and puts their feet on the seats (besides asshole teenagers and plain assholes)? 

It’s rude is what it is.

Dean’s tempted to say as much when Mafia Dude picks up Bumblebee. The security light covering the sliding doors and half of the patio behind Dean goes off, plunging them into near darkness. Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other to make it come back on. 

“Which is the one that transforms into a gun?”

The deep, guttural voice is more surprising than the question that it asks. 

Dean tries to speak, clears his throat. He's thirsty and the glass of water he'd left bed for is still on the kitchen countertop, half-filled. He loosely wonders if that's the only clue they'll find when he inevitably goes missing. “Showing your age there, dude.” He jokes, to no response. “Uh, Megatron.”

There’s a small hum of acknowledgment. Dean catches a quick glint of white teeth in the moonlight. 

“Dean?” Behind him, the glass door slides fully open, low rumble on the runner, and Dean half turns to face his stupid-ass, no-good cheating husband, all Cajun accent, brawn and blue eyes. Once upon a time, Dean would have been completely won over by the carefully constructed Southern charm, but the memories of writing love notes on Benny’s skin with his tongue have long since been smashed into a million pieces; little shards that worm their way a little further under Dean’s skin every single time Benny smiles at him.

“Go back inside, Benny.” Dean says as calmly as he can, one eye on the dangerous man who is currently a hundred grand light thanks to Dean and his ridiculous schemes. 

“Who the fuck is that?” Benny demands, glancing between Dean and the Mafia Dude, like it’s something he deserves to know. Like he didn’t lose that right the moment he put his hands on (and his dick in) the Sous Chef at his restaurant.

It is a good question though. One Dean would like the answer to himself. Along with - how long was this dude just sitting in Dean's yard, waiting for him to wake up so that they could have this non-discussion? Has he been out here all night? Dean finds it hard to believe that gangsters have nothing better to do than hang out in middle-class suburbia, waiting on the slim chance of someone seeing them out of a window or something. And then not calling the cops. Because that’s what sane people who don’t go around robbing grocery stores in order to steal mortgage money would do - call the cops. 

But not Dean. Nope. Dean and his dumbass brother and their dumbass friend just had to go and rob the Kwik Bargainz (yes, really) she’s a cashier at, because as Charlie worded it when the idea was voiced last month at their weekly nerd movie marathon, “There’s serious cash in that g-darned safe. We’d be fools not to steal it.”

Yeahuh. Turns out that the serious cash belongs to serious gangsters. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Mafia Dude rise up off the picnic table with what can only be described as a rather incredible amount of deadly grace. Dean’s not ashamed to say that he’s enthralled as the guy comes closer, in no obvious hurry, but each step is full of purpose and as he moves into range of the security light, Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

He’s only ever seen gangster movies where the scary guy is either a crusty old dude or some weasley younger guy, keen on showing his worth by any means necessary without understanding the honor that underpins a lot of organizations.

This dude is neither. No, this guy is built, but somehow still lithe beneath the black t-shirt stretched tight across his broad chest and shoulders. He’s got thick runner’s thighs and Dean’s scared as shit right now, but there must be some misfiring synapses in the recesses of his mind, because all he can think about is sitting on those thighs, riding the bulge that he can see the outline of in the tight, dark jeans. And his face; his face is a goddamn revelation. Blue eyes - Dean’s always been a sucker for blue eyes - sharp jaw with a 3 am shadow, dark tousled hair and a plush pink mouth.

He’d definitely be okay with riding that face too. 

Jesus Christ. 

Maybe this dude’ll be kind enough to grant Dean’s final wish before he murders him. ‘Cause if he gets some from this guy, he’ll die a happy man.

Mafia Dude strides into Dean’s space like he owns it, owns _him_ , and Dean’s never been one for backing down from a fight, but this guy makes him want to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. 

Dean’s whole body goes tense, every muscle tightening in breathless anticipation when Mafia Dude leans in close, scent of cologne, tang of salt, and murmurs, “I’ll see you around, Dean.”

He brushes past Dean, not even acknowledging Benny still stood on the flagstones in bare feet, and then he’s gone through the side gate.

Fuck, but Dean certainly hopes so. 

***

Dean slaps his brother’s hand away from the gluten-free blondies that he hurriedly bought at the store and is currently unpacking to slot into a baking tray to make it look like he did this shit himself. Can’t have Sandra and the other witches cackling away about his rock cakes (that may or may not have possessed the same consistency as actual rocks) again. 

Charlie is leaning over the kitchen island, elbows on the maple grain, chin in the open palm of her hand, all heart eyes and deep sighs. “Tell us again, Dean, about your secret fling beneath the moonlight.”

The corner of a blondie crumbles under his heavy-handedness. “Fuck off Charlie,” he mutters good-naturedly. “This is serious shit.”

Sam at least seems to be treating it with the gravitas that the situation deserves; he’s sitting on a stool opposite Dean with a fierce frown on his face, but then that could just be gas. His brother is the gasiest person he knows, yet still insists on eating organic. “Do you think he’s serious?”

Dean drops the metal spatula with a quiet clang against the baking tray. “No, Sam. He just showed up in my fucking back yard because he was fucking around.”

Charlie snorts out a laugh as she flutters her eyelashes. “Bet you _wish_ he’d fuck around in your back yard.”

Dean tries and fails to school his features away from the smile that Charlie has always been able to eke out of him as he resumes his blondie corralling. He points the spatula at her. “Not helpful.” 

They need to focus if they’re going to get through this. A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. It’s probably not as much to the Mafia Dude, but the actual monetary value of the cash is less of a concern than the principle of the whole thing. Dean’s seen enough gangster movies to know that it’s an affront to their honor or something when someone steals from them. Even if it is three middle-class amateurs with kids and mortgages. 

They need to come up with a gameplan if they’re going to live to see their next birthdays.

But first, the bake sale. 

***

Benny is a damned good chef. Dean not so much. He’s good with his hands, but keeps his focus on cars. He’s always felt that if he’s gonna be taking it up the ass from guys (and girls - yeah, he’s all about the equal opportunities, and Rhonda Hurley is still his best lay with her pink satin panties and monster strap-on) then he needs to at least have a manly profession. Getting covered in grease and spending all day inside the guts of a car is only one sexy calendar away from being a fireman. 

Essentially, it doesn’t get much more manly than that. 

But there are times when he wishes he could cook something a little more sophisticated than artfully arranging a sandwich in Ben’s lunchbox. 

So when Lisa sidles up to him at the bake sale, Dean already knows what she’s gonna say. “Don’t.”

She’s giggling into her hand, dark brown hair falling over her pretty face, and Dean aches with how much he loves her and how badly he failed her. 

“Where’d you get them? Costco?”

Another parent slinks past them, looks at Dean’s store-bought blondies, crow-barred into a baking tray and shoots Dean a glare like he’s just shit in his hand and dumped it on the table. To be fair, that probably would be a little more aesthetically appealing. 

“No, Lisa. I made them. With my own two hands.” He announces dramatically to anyone within earshot.

She laughs again, places her hand delicately on his bicep, squeezes lightly. “Even if that were true, it certainly wouldn’t be something to be proud of.” She pats his arm and wanders off before Dean can even attempt a witty rejoinder.

Agitated and abandoned, he pulls at his collar. It itches like a motherfucker. He always feels out of place at these things, despite how well he tries to camouflage himself. 

A woman in - no joke - a twinset and pearls, artfully skirts around him, clearly keeping her distance.

Dean sighs and snags a blondie. He might as well if nobody else is going to. 

It must be exhausting keeping up the pretense. No wonder they’re all so grumpy and judgy; they’re existing solely on kale smoothies and hate and talking about how their flower gardens are coming along like none of them have ever boned the pool guy. Dean can barely keep himself together for the three hours that he’s required to attend these stupid school functions for, let alone maintain it for eighty years or however old these perpetually middle-aged women actually are. 

He smiles with a mouthful of disgusting blondie at a gray-haired man who looks far more at ease in this setting than Dean could ever hope to be. 

As soon as the guy has rounded the corner of the red brick school, Dean spits out his mouthful of utterly foul blondie into his hand. 

There’s a garbage can a few feet away, at the end of the row of trestle tables stacked high with freshly baked goods, and Dean snags a napkin on his way, wiping the mess off his hand and into the trash. 

Morose, Dean glances at everyone else’s offerings. The Williams’ have brought some shortbread/cookies in the shape of fall leaves, with the whole color effect and everything. He wants to nab one, but he doesn’t have any change on him and he might be an armed robber, but he’s no thief. 

The Davies’ have made a Pinterest-perfect rainbow cake, then there’s some kind of awesome looking sponge, a treacle tart, a strudel…

_Ugh._

He turns his attention to Lisa’s buckle cake. It looks good and moist and Dean really wants some, but he daren’t reach out. Not when the space next to him is suddenly filled by someone who smells even better than the pecan pie that he’s been trying to ignore by not looking at it directly. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Well, fuck. 

Dean swallows hard around nothing, continues to stare at the buckle cake, like it’ll somehow help him out here. “H-hey--Uh, I don’t know your name. I can’t keep calling you ‘Mafia Dude’.”

He can hear the mirth in the guy’s voice. “I’m not with the mafia.”

Dean does look at him then. The first thing he notices isn’t the amused blue eyes, or the perfect mouth, it’s the tattoo over his throat. It’s a grayscale angel, with the wings furling out across and around his neck. It’s pretty freakin’ hot and Dean’s kinda surprised that he didn’t notice it last night. But then he did have other things on his mind.

Like his dick.

“O--kay.” Dean says slowly, pinpricks just below the surface of his skin under this dude’s scrutiny. “What do you want me to call you?”

“Boss.” the guy says, not quite smirking, but not really needing to in order to get his perverse delight across. “Because you and your brother and friend--” Dean conjures up his best poker face at the revelation that this guy knows who did the job with him “--are going to be working for me for the foreseeable future.”

Dean fumbles, grasping around for a comeback, something to say. At this point he’d settle for a noise of any description. 

Apparently his brain decides on a loud exclamation of, “What the fuck?” 

Perhaps not that. Certainly not that loudly. Definitely not when he’s surrounded by soccer moms at his son’s private school.

Over the heads suddenly turned his way, Dean catches and holds the worried gaze of his sasquatch brother, silently communicating his concern through his extremely unsubtle expressions.

Dean shakes his head minutely, wordlessly ordering his brother to stay away.

“It’s this subtlety that put you on my radar.” Not-Mafia Dude says drily, holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

Scandalized, Dean steps back, narrowly missing stomping on the peep-toe sandals of Ben’s least favorite teacher, Ms. Hayes. She gives him a glare that lets him know that the next parent’s evening will be even less fun than the last one. 

“Dude, you’re mugging me _here_?”

Middle-class suburbia has certainly lowered its standards recently, but he didn’t think it had gotten this bad.

A hint of a smile flickers at the edge of Not-Mafia Dude’s mouth. “Unless your phone is worth a hundred thousand dollars, then no. Phone. Now.”

Dean scrambles to obey. Whatever this is, it needs to be over as quickly as possible, so that the snobs can go back to judging him for his baking skills (or lack thereof), rather than the hot tattooed stranger. The ladies nearby are already starting to talk. He slaps his cell into Not-Mafia Dude’s waiting palm and gnaws nervously on his bottom lip as the most handsome man he’s ever seen keys his number into Dean’s phone. 

He hands it back, smooth skin sliding against Dean’s calloused fingers. “I’ll see you around, Dean.”

***

So, here’s the thing. Dean knocked Lisa up when they were still kids really. Dean had been young, stupid, and utterly in love, but also kinda petrified. 

Now he’s old, stupid and not in love, but he definitely loves Lisa and gets why he thought she’d be the perfect hiding place for his bisexuality. It wasn’t fair on her or him though and he realized that right around the time that Lisa realized that she was pregnant with Ben. 

Unfortunately, Dean left before she had the chance to tell him. 

Lisa was six months pregnant and living with a doctor before Dean had managed to sack up and return to apologize. Finding out he was going to be a dad wasn’t the shock he wanted, but it was certainly the one he needed. 

Three months later, when little Ben was born kicking and screaming, his mom and dad weren’t together, but his dad was living in the same gated community as his mom and running his own respectable mechanics yard; finally in the family business. 

Of course, eleven years later he’s still utterly petrified. Which has less to do with his sexuality and a lot more to do with the handsome gangster currently stalking him, but that’s neither here nor there.

Dean shoves more of Benny’s shirts into a duffel. If the lazy ass isn’t going to pack up his shit, then Dean will happily do it with a lot less finesse. 

It hadn’t been until his mid-twenties that Dean had met Benny; sexy, bear Benny, who was witty and fun and he just got Dean. 

Unfortunately, he also got Emily, Andrea, Jake, and Matt amongst others. 

If it was just the cheating, Dean might one day have gotten over it. But in the same painful breath as Dean’s discovery that his husband had stuck his dick in every warm orifice within a five-mile radius, had come the revelation that Benny’d been spending money like water, money that they barely had in the first place. 

So, Benny’s a shitty husband. But he’s an excellent father to Ben and Dean would never take that away from either of them, no matter how pissed he is.

Which right now, is very.

Benny steps in front of him as Dean goes to yank the underwear drawer open. Dean bulldozes through him, anger and adrenaline providing the extra strength. He starts tossing boxers over their California King, gritting his teeth against the visual of Benny’s underwear on someone else’s bed. 

Fucker.

“What the hell is going on with you right now, Dean?”

Dean resolutely ignores him, slamming one empty drawer shut.

In the face of Dean’s antagonistic silence, Benny loses a bit of his composure in the fit of misplaced jealousy that Dean’s been waiting for since Not-Mafia Dude put in an appearance on their lawn the other night. “He showed up at the fuckin' bake sale, Dean! Andrea told me.”

Because of course she did. 

“Yeah?” Dean spits, venomous and fangs out, “She told you that before or after she had your cock in her great big mouth?” He kicks out at the bottom drawer of the dresser in an angry attempt to close it, but it stubbornly refuses. 

“Dean,” Benny half-scolds, half-placates.

It just serves to infuriate him further, “Don’t you _‘Dean’_ me, you fucking asshole! Even if I was fucking him - which I’m not by the way --” (no matter how much he wishes he was) “-- you forfeited the right to ask or tell me anything the day you dipped your pen in the company ink!”

Benny looks pained, but doesn’t say anything, correctly sensing that Dean’s on a roll.

“If it weren’t for you slutting it about all over town and rinsing our money away, I wouldn’t even be in this situation anyway!”

Benny looks at him oddly, confused, frown marring his handsome face.

Shit, he’s said too much.

“Dean,” Benny takes an aborted step towards him. “What do you mean, cher?”

Dean closes the distance between them, finger pointed in his husband’s face. “Don’t you fucking dare, Benny.” Benny speaking Cajun in that soft voice has always done _things_ to Dean, and the situation is just too messy for him to lose the tenuous grasp that he has on his self-control now. “I just mean that I wouldn’t have had to take out that second mortgage so that we didn’t become homeless.”

Benny appears as though he doesn’t believe Dean, but wisely leaves it alone. “So what now?”

Dean’s tired of feeling like he has no control over his own life. He turns away from Benny when he says, “House is in my name. You can fuck off. Permanently.”

There’s a wounded pause, before, “And Ben?”

Dean desperately wants to say, “Mine too, you can still fuck off.” but he knows he can’t. Ben loves him to bits and the feeling is mutual. No matter how much Dean is hurting, he can’t do that to his son. 

“I don’t know.” Dean eventually settles on instead. 

Behind him he hears Benny picking up his duffel that Dean’s haphazardly packed. “I’ll call you in the week.”

The quiet click of the bedroom door behind Benny feels all too final.

***

Sam is sitting astride the bench of the picnic table, beer in one hand-slash-paw. He takes up the whole damn thing, so Dean’s dragged one of the poncy dining chairs out onto the lawn. It’ll leave dents, but he’s drunk enough to not care. 

Sam’s swallows around a mouthful of beer, throat working, “So, what now?” He asks, possibly a little more sober than Dean, who’s busy going to town on the label of his own nearly empty beer bottle.

“We wait and see what this guy wants, I guess.” Dean mutters, tosses a sideways glance at Charlie who’s draped over a beanbag. 

“What if he wants the money back?” Sam asks, ever the worrier. Except for when they were committing the actual robbery; then he was the total badass Dean’s always known his little brother could be.

“Well then he’s shit out of luck ain’t he Sammy? ‘Cause my share’s gone into this house. Yours has gone on Madison’s hospital bills and Charlie’s has gone on--” He pauses, thinks. “--yo Charlie, what did you spend your money on?”

Charlie raises her beer in an invisible toast. “Beer, hardware and wenches.”

“Wenches?” Sam squints.

“Yeah, y’know,” Charlie grins, makes an obscene gesture with two of her fingers and tongue, then sighs at their blank stares. “Jesus, it’s like you two haven’t been near a pussy in years. No offense, Dean.”

Dean frowns, bewildered. It takes a moment for him to catch up and he blames it on the beer coursing through his system. Charlie’s never liked Benny. Neither of them have. 

“You sayin’ my husband is a pussy there, Charlie?” Dean squints through the encroaching darkness at his friend before turning his attention to the empty bottle in his fingers. 

He needs another, but they’re all the way back inside. 

Goddamn.

“No,” Charlie looks contrite. “I’m saying your husband is a cunt.”

There’s a short pause, whilst they process the words before all three of them burst out laughing, giggling and guffawing like teenagers. 

It takes them several minutes to calm down and there’s a sobering moment of silence where it creeps back up on Dean just how screwed they all are. 

Sam rises up from the bench, unpretzeling himself. “Beer?” He asks Dean, already striding towards the house. 

“Like you even need to ask!” Dean shouts at his brother’s departing back as the door rumbles open on the sliders.

He and Charlie sit in contented silence, until Charlie says. “I’m sorry that Sam and I were right.”

“Huh?”

“It’s shitty what Benny did to you. You deserve better.”

“Eh, it’s not so bad.” Dean lies, knowing that Charlie will see right through him, but hopefully won’t call him on his bullshit.

Thankfully, she doesn’t. “So, what are we going to do about this handsome gangster of yours?”

Dean shrugs loosely, tries not to think about that tattoo, tries not to wonder where else he might be tattooed. “He wants us to work it off, I think.”

“How?” 

“Cover his shifts at the gas’n’go?” Dean quips, “Man, I dunno Charlie, but whatever it is, it’s not gonna be good is it? I can’t see it being anything less than illegal.”

There’s a couple of beats of silence.

“Dude, what’s _more_ than illegal?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind and encouraging comments on the first chapter - I appreciate every one.
> 
> I've changed the plan slightly. I'm gonna upload two chapters a week - aiming for Sundays and Wednesdays, possibly Mondays and Thursdays. Fingers crossed I can keep it up!

Turns out plain illegal is enough for Not-Mafia dude. 

“You know,” Dean mutters to his brother and friend, brandishing the box that had been fed-exed to his house that morning. “I’m starting to think that becoming homeless and bankrupt might have been the better choice.”

Charlie rolls her eyes, dragging the ten-pound-plus box out of Dean’s grasp, across the kitchen island. “Such a drama queen.” She pulls the box open and stops dead, breath held on a sharp intake, “...is this…?”

“Counterfeit, yeah,” Dean confirms with a tight nod, spares a glance at his brother whose usually tan face is looking a little on the pale side. 

“How much?” Charlie breathes, picking up an inch-thick stack of banknotes.

Dean had spent all morning counting and recounting; he knows exactly how much is there. Still he hedges when he says, “About half a million, I think.” 

Sam’s one revelation away from fainting and Dean cannot deal with that honestly, so he bustles him into a repurposed dining chair. There’s only three remaining now as Dean had left the one from the other night outside and it’s rained since then.

Eh, Benny picked them out. No big loss.

“What are we supposed to do with all that?” Sam asks, wide-eyed and worried, and all Dean can see is the scared kid that once tearfully told him about Tommy Wilcox stealing his lunch money. It makes Dean’s heart ache behind his ribs and he absently rubs at the gnawing pang in his chest.

“Wash it, I suppose.” He mutters. 

Charlie bangs two stacks together, like she’s expecting something other than the dull paper-on-paper sound that she actually gets.

“Wash it?” Sam repeats dumbly, fox eyes blinking.

“Not in the machine, you dumbass.” Dean says, “Y’know, launder it.”

“No,” Sam snaps irritably, “ _ I don’t know _ , because I’m not a master criminal like you are apparently.”

“Oh that’s rich,” Dean snipes back, “Because you were the genius who came up with the toy gun idea--” he adopts an over-exaggerated caricature of Sam’s voice, at least an octave higher than his own. “‘Oh I know Dean, why don’t we get some fake guns, because fifteen years in jail isn’t long enough, why don’t we add 20 to life to our rap sheet. It’s not like any of us have kids or wives, or husbands or…  _ wenches _ to worry about now is it?!’”

By the end of his rant, Dean’s bordering on hysterical. Spelled out like that, what they did sounds less reasonable than it had done a few weeks ago. 

Shit. 

“You’re an asshole,” Sam says, but there’s no real anger there, just exhausted resignation and Dean has a split second to feel even worse than he did when he first opened his express delivery earlier, before the sound of his cell phone ringing cuts right through all three of them.

Charlie had been sniffing the money, but she stops in favor of shooting Dean an indecipherable look. 

“Is that... _ Glory of Love _ ?” Sam asks. 

_ ‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I'll be the hero that you're dream--’ _

Dean swipes to answer without checking the caller ID. Ben’s probably been messing about with his phone again. Hilarious little turd. “Hello?” 

“Hello, Dean.”

Well, today just keeps getting better and better. 

Something must show on his face, because both Charlie and Sam are suddenly staring at him intently, hanging off every word of his side of the conversation.

“Hello -- Whoever the fuck you are. I still don’t know what to call you.”

There’s an amused sound at the other end, “You didn’t check the name I put into your phone?”

It’s the very first thing Dean had done as soon as Not-Mafia dude had left him at the bake sale the other day. Well besides getting the fuck outta there sharpish before Ms. Hayes decided to chastise him for nearly crushing her toes. 

“Of course I did,” Dean mutters petulantly, feeling his cheeks heat up. “I don’t know what C-A-S stands for though, so I’m just as in the dark as ever.”

“Castiel.” Not-Mafia dude says. 

“Cas-tiel.” Dean repeats, testing it out on his tongue.

There’s a quiet sound of rustling, then Castiel asks, voice a little thicker and rougher than before, “...Did you get my gift?”

“The money?” Dean asks stupidly. Sam starts like he’s been electrocuted.

“Yes, Dean. The money.” Castiel says through thinly spread patience.

“Yeah,” Dean swallows thickly, glancing between his brother and Charlie. “We have the money.” When Castiel doesn’t say anything else, Dean ventures, “What do you want us to do with it?”

Another one of those little amused sounds that Dean’s growing to loathe. “Go on a shopping spree. Get a tattoo. Enjoy yourself.” 

Like Dean needed reminding about Castiel’s tattoo. 

“Y’know what?” Dean suddenly flies apart out of nowhere, the already tattered fragments of his self-preservation and judgment splintering into a million pieces, making him annoyed beyond rationality and unapologetically reckless with it. “You can go fuck yourself you smug prick. I’m sick of being jerked around by assholes and you are a pornstar-after-a-fifty-dude-gangbang sized asshole, my friend.”

And with that, he hangs up.

In the taut silence that follows, Dean wonders whether it’s a serious personality defect that he has or just an honest-to God deathwish.

He’s been meaning to write a will anyways. 

It might not even be  _ that  _ bad. At worst, he may have to consider a new face and identity.

“Well,” Charlie says eventually, pulling herself up onto a kitchen countertop, legs a-swinging, dirty combat boots thud-thud-thudding against the recently remodeled cabinets. Somehow, Dean doesn’t have the wherewithal to call her out on it, “That went swimmingly.”

“Yeah,” Sam adds from Dean’s left, looking rather nauseous. “Think I’m gonna go get Jess, Madison, and our fucking passports. Good one, Dean.”

_ ‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I'll be the hero that you're dreaming of. We’ll live forever--’ _

“What?” Dean snaps into the phone, a little shakier now that his confidence has drained a bit, allowing fear to creep in around the edges.

“I understand that you’ve had a difficult week, so I’ll let that slide, but hang up on me again and I’ll--”

“You’ll what?” Dean interrupts, adrenaline and righteous anger making him stupid (more stupid.) “You’ll come and menace me to death in the backyard again? Send me more fake money?”

There’s a long pause at the other end. Dean pulls his cell away from his ear to check that they’re still connected. They are. 

“Your son goes to St James’,” comes the low, dark menace Dean had expected from the beginning but not experienced until now. It sends his heartbeat into overdrive, pounding so fast and hard that he’s convinced it’s going to break a rib. “His mother is picking him up in half an hour. It would be a shame if she couldn’t make it and she had to ask a  _ friend _ to get him instead.”

All Dean can hear over the sudden roaring in his ears is the creaking of his plastic cell phone case as he grips it so tightly that he’s gonna fuse with it any second now. “Don’t.” He manages shakily, voice paper-thin. “Just… what do you want?”

“World peace.” 

_ Asshole. _

Lesson learned, Dean wisely keeps his counsel. He clears his throat, tries to regain his equilibrium as he considers how Lisa is going to react when she finds out what stupid shit Dean’s done now. How he’s put her and their son in danger. Fuck. “...W-What do you want us to do with the money?”

“Wash it.” Comes the clipped response. “And not in the machine either.”

With that excellent advice, Castiel hangs up.

_ Fucking asshole. _

  
  


***

  
  


Bobby has worked with Dean forever and a day. He genuinely can’t remember a time when Bobby wasn’t a fixture at Winchester Auto Repairs, turning the air blue whenever he catches sight of an abused car. He actually made a woman cry once because she’d put unleaded in her diesel engine. 

But it’s not his people skills that Dean hired him for, really. Bobby used to run his own salvage yard, until his wife Ellen convinced him to move halfway across the country. The ancient redneck with the grubby baseball cap and attitude problem has forgotten more about cars than Dean will likely ever know. 

Plus, Dean’s kinda grown fond of the old bastard. 

He, Sam, Benny, Jess, Ben, and Madison have spent many a night round Bobby and Ellen’s with their daughter, Jo, eating their weight in Ellen’s excellent mac’n’cheese and putting the world to rights. They’re family. 

Bobby was there in the beginning when Dean was struggling with how to be a father.

Bobby was there in lieu of their father when Sam and then Dean got married. 

Bobby was there at Madison’s christening.

He offered his life savings to help pay for Madison’s kidney transplant and some of the experimental medication, when Sam’s insurance wouldn’t cover it. 

Dean trusts Bobby with his life, but he can’t trust him with this. 

Firstly, Dean can’t bring Bobby into this absolute shitstorm. 

Secondly, Bobby always does the right thing and the right thing in this situation - as Sam had not-so-tactfully pointed out - is to go to the police with the money, Castiel’s number, and hang the consequences for themselves.

But Dean is a coward and he really doesn’t want to go to jail. He’s too pretty for that shit; he’d be passed around and traded for smokes. 

So of course, at work the next day, as Dean’s about to not-so-suavely smuggle in ten thousand dollars in counterfeit notes, Bobby follows him into the office and asks (demands) to know what's wrong, like he’s already decided that Dean must be up to something. 

The fact that Dean actually  _ is  _ up to something does nothing to lessen his righteous indignation. 

Dean’s always been a proponent of ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ so he slaps on his best smile and turns to face the crotchety redneck that he loves like his own father. More than his own father, even. 

“Morning, Bobby. Nothing’s wrong. Well besides my husband being a cheating bastard of course.”

Bobby doesn’t look convinced. “Of course,” he agrees slowly, eyeing Dean like the teenager-caught-with-his-pants-down-in-the-back-of-his-parents-Camry-with-the-preacher’s-daughter that he mostly is (change the Camry to a Chevvy and it could be the title of his autobiography). 

When Dean doesn’t burst open like a dam, spilling all of his secrets, Bobby removes his ever-present baseball cap, scratches at his head, then replaces the cap. It’s a wonder that the damn thing hasn’t grown sentience by now. He sighs and then changes tack, says, “Police were here earlier.”

Dean chokes on air. “...what?”

_ Smooth, like crunchy peanut butter. _

“Are you sure you’re alright, boy?”

“Yeah,” Dean dismisses, “Why were the police here?”

Bobby shrugs, his body language telegraphing casual disinterest, but Dean knows better. Shrewd old bastard. “Something about that robbery a few weeks ago at the Kwik Bargainz out on main. Cop wanted to know if Charlie still worked here too, I think.”

_ Oh shit, shit, shit fuck. _

Never let it be said that Dean doesn’t have an excellent poker face. “Why?”

“Well, she was one of the hostages, wasn’t she?” Bobby looks as though he’s considering the pros and cons of having Dean committed. “Maybe they’re having trouble catching up with her.”

Dean breathes a little easier. But not much. The enormity of what they’ve done hits him square in the chest for what feels like the millionth time in the last few weeks. It’s a wonder he’s not covered in bruises.

“Oh yeah,” Dean manages at Bobby’s worried expression. He pulls himself together enough to add, “I think she lost her phone or something.”

It’s pretty apparent that he’s missed casual by a mile, instead diving headfirst into I’M CLEARLY HIDING SOMETHING territory. 

“Yeahhhh...Listen, don’t think I don’t know that you’re lying to me, boy.” Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Bobby cuts him off. “I don’t wanna hear whatever bullshit excuse you’re about to give me. Just figure it out and if you can’t do it yourself, then you know where I am. Idjit.” 

Bobby leaves the office, closing the door on his way out and Dean sinks into his desk chair like his strings have been cut. 

He runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Fuck.”

_ Breathe. Focus.  _

What in the actual fuck is he doing? What about all three of them suddenly coming into money for super important life-saving shit, doesn’t scream  _ ‘yeah, we just knocked over a convenience store’ _ ? And as if the worry of being caught by the police isn’t enough, now he’s got some hotass psycho - who had they met under different circumstances would be getting Dean’s A-game - after him, threatening him in that stupidly intense way of his and Dean’s not entirely sure whether Castiel deliberately pitches his voice at the precise timbre necessary to make Dean half-hard every single time he opens his stupid, dangerous mouth, or whether Dean’s dry spell in the last couple of months is getting to him.

Either way, the situation is far from ideal.

Dean had never planned on living a stable life in the suburbs, but he’d never planned to be a dad at twenty either. When he’d first moved to Lisa’s gated community to be close to her and Ben, he’d had to rent. The only credit he’d had back then had been bad and until his auto repair shop got off the ground, he was pretty light in the pocket anyway. 

He’d bought his first house at age twenty-five, approximately six months before he met Benny and it had been the second huge milestone in his life (after Ben) up until that point. It had taken him a while to find one that he fell in love with, but as soon as he saw the house that’s been his and Ben’s home for the last six years, he just _ knew _ . Two stories with a massive yard out back and a fancy kitchen that Dean liked to pretend that he was going to learn to bake in but never got around to. 

They made the right decision. Madison was going to die. Dean was going to lose the only real home he’s ever truly known. 

He unzips the duffel, stacks the counterfeit bills in the safe, makes himself a strong coffee, and then steps out onto the forecourt with renewed resolve.

It’s all going to be okay. He can do this. 

  
  


***

Dean briefly played high school football. He spent more of his time on the bench than the field, because he just wasn’t great at it. He’s a decent enough runner when he’s being chased, but that’s pretty much the limit of his athletic ability. Throughout school, Sam always had his head in a book. Poor kid never really had the brawn or the wherewithal to get into sports or the school spirit. Of course now, Sam’s built like a brick shithouse, but his recently acquired muscle mass didn’t come with a sudden desire to go long or to do much other than bench press a number that makes Dean’s head hurt and arms ache in sympathy. 

All this is to say that athleticism isn’t really in the Winchester genes. 

Ben is therefore not the best player on his Little League team. He’s not quite the worst, despite his most sincere efforts.

Dean winces as his kid misses another easy ball and strikes out. With slumped shoulders, Ben trudges over to the dugout, and on his way glances up at the near-empty stands, finds his dad easily and makes a face.

Dean shoots him an enthusiastic thumbs-up, ‘cause he’s a supportive dad.

Inwardly he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. 

Maybe Dean could gently broach the subject of taking up a different hobby. Something that doesn’t involve huge wooden weapons and other player’s shins (and hadn’t  _ that _ incident taken some serious talking out of; Simon Weebler's dad is a real dickhead).

The bench he’s on sinks a little under someone else’s weight and Dean fights every instinct he has not to look to see who it is. It’s not like he doesn’t have a pretty good idea anyways, not if the tense, cologne-scented silence is anything to go off of. 

“We really need to stop meeting like this, dude.” Dean jokes, shoving his hands into his leather jacket pockets, lest Castiel see them shaking.

Casey Adams hits a home run and Dean watches Ben watching her. Dude has a little crush on the pre-teen girl and Dean’s pretty sure that it’s mutual. Maybe she could teach Ben a thing or two about not sucking at baseball, ‘cause the chick is _ good.  _

“I could always come to your house again.” Castiel offers casually and Dean isn’t sure if he’s being sarcastic or painfully earnest.

The ball gets thrown again and whoever the girl is on the pitcher’s mound, she has a great arm. Like,  _ Pedro Martinez _ great. 

The sharp memory of who Castiel is and what he’s capable of, coupled with the semi-automatic pistol that Dean can see out of the corner of his eye, tucked into the waistband of Castiel’s tight jeans, only partially covered by his shirttails, has Dean disregarding the reflex to joke or flirt, and he answers with a quick, but polite, “No. Thanks.”

The next batter misses the pitch. 

“I’m going to need my money now.”

Dean does turn to fully face him then. It’s a pretty overcast day, and Castiel is wearing a pair of aviators. Usually, Dean would assume douchebaggery, but the shades teamed with the black collared shirt only provide Dean with yet more jerk-off material. “What? You only sent me that counterfeit shit a couple of days ago. I’ve washed maybe fifteen hundred dollars.”

There’s a dangerous edge to Castiel’s voice as he leans in towards Dean ever so slightly. “Then you need to figure it out because the interest is growing every day and I charge a lot more than the banks.”

Dean’s exhausted, fed up, washed out, exposed down to the wire. He scrubs a hand over the coarse stubble on his chin. “I’m doing my best here, man. Cut me a break. I’ll get you your money, just give me time.”

The pitcher blows through the next three batters whilst Dean waits on tenterhooks to hear whether he’s getting (metaphorically) fucked over with or without lube.

“I suppose I could give you more time.”

With it is. Praise Jesus.

“I’ll swing by the auto repair shop tomorrow. How does 2 sound?” Castiel’s rising up off the bench, apparently satisfied without any input from Dean, and then Dean’s scrabbling in a blind panic, reaching for Castiel’s arm, as he stands up too. 

“Wait, no-- Please--”

Castiel pauses, waiting stoically for Dean to elaborate. 

Dean can see himself reflected in Castiel's aviators. He looks almost as horrified as he feels, eyes wide and freckles a stark contrast against the paleness of his skin. His fingers flex uselessly, hand frozen mere inches from Castiel’s arm. 

“Look,” Dean tries, mouth dry, “there’s no way I can get that kind of money together by tomorrow. Isn’t there another way?”

“Hmm,” Castiel tilts his head and considers Dean for a long moment, gaze dragging up his body to his face. “There may be something else you could do to earn the money back. One job and then we’re even.”

Dean forgets - or willingly chooses to ignore at the dark look he can sense from even behind the shades - all the wisdom and adages about something being too good to be true, and so against his better judgment, he says, “Yes. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Castiel makes a pained sound in the back of his throat, like a wounded animal. “Don’t say that to me without knowing what you’re saying yes to.”

A tendril of dread winds its way around Dean’s heart, squeezes, “Do I have to kill anybody?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  
  


***

  
  


_ Whatever it takes _ can mean a lot of things. 

It could be drugs, guns, stolen property, exotic animals.. _.people...body parts _ ? Is Dean about to become a cog in the organ trafficking machine? Is he about to be trafficked  _ himself? _

Voicing the pinnacle of Dean’s fears, Sam says, “Oh my God, what if you’re getting sold into sexual slavery?” 

Before Dean can even think up a response that doesn’t end with ‘off’ and begin with ‘fuck all the way’, Sam’s adding, “Nah, never mind. You’d have to pay them.” And Dean recognizes the insult for what it is when he sees his brother’s teasing grin. 

Even still, Dean throws a loose punch that connects with the solid muscle of his brother’s shoulder, and really, if anyone in this family needs to be sold into sexual slavery, it’s this handsome fucker. “Oh fuck you, Sam. You’re just jelly that the gangster has a hard-on for me, and not you.” 

Boy, that’s some Freudian shit right there.

Ironically, Sam was the one who used to be fascinated with serial killers and gangsters, reading up on them extensively, binge-watching awful documentaries on those sketchy tv channels that they only seemed to get in the cheapest of cheap motels that they moved between during their formative years. Meanwhile, Dean was out getting laid and hustling for their dinner. Not always in that order, unfortunately.

The stove-top kettle whistles and Sam crosses the kitchen to turn off the gas. He fills up the two mugs on the granite countertop, reaching into an overhead cabinet for the bag of marshmallows he keeps there out of reach from both his wife (at her insistence) and daughter (most certainly not at her insistence). 

Dean remembers when Jess and Sam bought this place. He’d helped a little with the deposit as a wedding present, but the majority of it was his not-so-baby brother and his then-pregnant wife. He’d never been so proud of Sam; husband, soon-to-be-father, and all-around responsible adult, the latter being something that Dean had always managed to passably mimic, but never actually  _ was. _

Turns out, Sam was bullshitting his way through this adulting crap too. 

He hands Dean a mug and Dean takes it gratefully, warming his palms through the ceramic. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had hot cocoa anywhere except at your house.”

He doesn’t need to mention all those times that it was just the two of them, a bunch of motel roaches, and a couple of sachets of hot chocolate. 

Leaning against the counter, lifting the steaming drink to his lips, Sam replies, “I don’t think I’ve ever made it for anyone else other than you. Nobody else will drink this awful instant shit with me.”

They drink their cocoa and marshmallows in contemplative silence, Dean sitting at the small gingham-covered kitchen table in the corner next to the humming fridge, Sam stretched out across from him, legs crossed at the ankles. 

And just for a minute Dean can pretend that everything’s normal. That Benny’s at home with Ben, making a mess in the kitchen, that Madison never got sick, and perhaps most importantly, that they didn’t rob a fucking grocery store and get some kind of psychotic pretty-boy gangster coming after them.

Only for a minute though.

“Why  _ is _ he so fixated on you?”

Dean shrugs as he licks sticky sweetness from his lips. “We can’t all be the MVP, Sammy. Game recognizes game.”

Sam shoots him a pointed look, ignoring Dean’s flippancy as usual. It’s yet to discourage him. “Seriously though Dean. Haven’t you ever wondered?”

Of course he has, but then he thinks about the alternatives of Cas turning up at either Sam or Charlies’ houses and he’s glad it’s him who has to deal with the handsome asshole’s unique brand of inscrutable harassment. 

“I figure that I’m the easiest target.” Dean rests his empty mug on the table cloth. “Y’know, what with your wife being a freakin’ cop and all, and Charlie being...well, _ Charlie _ .”

Sam hmms noncommittally, but doesn’t say anything else as he finishes his drink and Dean picks at a loose thread in his jeans. Just when Dean thinks that his brother’s going to let it go, eyeing Dean like he’s looking for a tell, he says, “Still, must have been pretty unnerving for you, what with him turning up in your yard, then the school and now the baseball game.”

“Yeah,” Dean admits carefully, not sure what his brother’s hinting at, “It’s not the meet-cute most young boys dream about, but y’know. It’s certainly less cringey than those crappy  _ ‘Can you believe we both reached for the same heirloom tomato? _ ’ stories, right?”

In the face of Sam’s dispassionate silence, Dean carries on, only a  _ tiny  _ bit rattled,“‘ _ Oh Cas and I? We met when I stole a hundred grand from him. He started stalking me and threatening to kidnap the mother of my child, and I just was quite literally helpless in the face of that kind of seductive technique. Did I happen to mention what a hotass he is?’ _ I mean seriously, Sam. What the fuck are you trying to say? You think that the drug-dealing, money-laundering, gun-toting gangster is worried about adding stalking to his rap sheet? ”

“No, and that’s what’s worrying  _ me _ .”

Now Dean really isn’t following. But before he’s able to cry uncle regarding this particular Mad Hatter riddle, a sleepy, barefooted Madison appears in the kitchen doorway, long dark hair Samara style, floppy bunny rabbit cuddly toy clutched to her Lilo and Stitch themed pajama top. 

It’s the first time in six months that Dean’s seen her without a clunky oxygen tank; what with her very specific form of kidney disease inducing hypoxia and making everyday stuff like going to school and playing with friends damn near impossible. 

Sam’s rushes over to his little girl, scooping her up in an instant, shushing her softly, and she curls into his chest, bunny crushed into his armpit. 

Dean lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It was all worth it. They may be absolutely fucked now, but his niece is finally starting to live her life and Dean can’t bring himself to be sorry about any of it. 

And maybe, just maybe, once Dean does this job - whatever it may be - Castiel will leave them all alone and they can pretend like all this never happened. Like everything’s really normal again. 

Like everything has the potential to be normal again. Like normal is even what Dean wants anymore.

Around the thumb in her mouth, Madison announces, "I had a nightmare."

"Big same, Maddy." Dean mutters to himself as Sam carries her out of the kitchen and back up to bed. “Big fucking same.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the handful of you who always read, comment and kudos my stuff no matter how long it's been since I last posted anything. I appreciate you <3
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's leaving kudos and comments, essentially cheering me on. It's always lovely to know that my nonsense is enjoyed!

It turns out that Ben didn’t change Dean’s ringtone, because, and Dean’s paraphrasing here, his tech-savvy kid would have changed that shit to Gangnam Style or something called ‘What does the Fox say?’ 

Sam reliably informs him that the latter is like the hamster song of the 2010’s. 

It’s not like Dean doesn’t have bigger things to worry about, but sometimes it’s the little stuff that snags his focus. Like how would someone have done it,  _ why _ would someone have done it? It’s just such a ridiculous thing to do for no goddamn reason. 

“Dean.”

Charlie’s denied it. So has Sam. Ben really isn’t the culprit, because usually, he can’t wait to boast about the daft shit he pulls to confuse Dean on a daily basis. Nobody else knows his unlock code--

“ _ Dean. _ ”

\--Except for Benny. Why would Benny change his ringtone?  _ When  _ would Benny have changed his ringtone? They’ve not seen each other since Dean kicked his ass to the curb for good, so he’s not had access to his phone anyway. Nobody has--

“Dean!”

Dean startles when his brother slams a huge paw down on the dining table, mere inches away from the irremovable mark in the grain that Dean’s been staring at for an inordinate amount of time. “What the fuck, Sammy?” He glances between Sam and Charlie, nonplussed.

“We tried talking to you for like ten minutes, dude.” Charlie confirms, arms crossed over her Star Whores t-shirt. “You spaced out.”

Dean sighs, rubs at the back of his neck, abashed, “Shit. Sorry.”

In fairness, he’s more than a little exhausted. Combined with their joint worry about the cops, general worries about their families, about money, Dean’s still waiting to hear exactly how the other shoe is gonna drop with the attractive gangbanger. At this point, Castiel’s lack of communication feels like cruel and unusual punishment for some transgression of the arbitrary rules that Dean has never been privy to. 

In all likelihood however, the dude most likely hasn’t given him a second thought and is instead deeply involved in whatever shit he gets up to when he’s not tormenting Dean. 

Maybe he’s found another budding criminal to harass. Dean finds himself both relieved and disappointed at that, maybe a bit jealous too.

He decides not to explore that reaction too closely.

Instead he turns his full(ish) attention to his brother and friend, and oh, how he wishes he hadn’t. Sam’s doing that thing where he’s scrutinizing Dean with those puppy-dog eyes, all soft and understanding and Dean cannot deal with his goddamn pity. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

Which is just the stupid question to end all stupid questions, really.

“Oh yeah, Sam. I’m fucking peachy! The cops are after Charlie, the gangsters are after me, and I still don’t know who changed my goddamned ringtone!”

Charlie and Sam exchange glances. 

That ratchets up his annoyance even more. “ _ What? _ ”

“How many hours’ sleep have you gotten in the last week?” Sam asks gently, all budget high school counselor. “Ballpark figure.”

Dean’s beginning to think that this inquisition masquerading as nerd night is actually an intervention or some shit.

“I don’t know.” He admits slowly, resisting the urge throttle his stupid sasquatch brother, stuff and mount him above the fireplace. “Between my full-time job, robbing convenience stores, and dodging gangsters, I try to get a good solid eight hours, but goshdarnit if I don’t stay up past my bedtime catching up on The Real Housewives of Atlanta.”

Thankfully, the doorbell rings before Sam can scold him for his flippancy. Dean’s not sure either of them would survive it. 

“Thank fuck,” He says pointedly, slapping his palms down on the table to leverage himself up. He pushes past Sam and Charlie and out of the dining room, making his way through the open plan living room where Ben and Casey are playing a video game that is almost certainly far too gory and violent for their age group. 

He lets the door swing wide when he opens it. Standing there on the porch in all his tattooed bad boy glory, haloed by the afternoon sun, is Castiel. Today he’s wearing a navy long-sleeved shirt with black jeans, and seriously? Does this dude own any clothes on the lighter side of the color palette?

He’s too tired to protest when Castiel takes Dean’s surprised stumble backward as permission to enter the house. “Hello, Dean.” For every step Castiel makes towards him, Dean takes one back, internally cursing himself for not having the immediate courage to meet him in the middle. It’s not like Castiel doesn’t know that he’s a pussy, but it would be nice if Dean could maintain the illusion at such a basic level. 

Castiel shuts the door behind himself, and Dean manages a rather curt, “What are you doing here?”

It’s a start at least.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Castiel pauses with that infuriating, indecipherable look, as if he’s waiting for Dean to call him out on it. Dean doesn’t give him the pleasure of being right. “I thought it would be the perfect time to discuss our business arrangement.”

_ Uh huh. _

Dean draws in a deep shuddering breath. His primary concern is the kids in the other room. His secondary concern is his brother and friend in the dining room. He considers his options. Either he can kick Castiel out right now. That’ll go one of two ways; Castiel will leave, but next time he sees Dean he’ll be pissed, or he’ll make a threat that’ll oblige Dean to let him stay. Alternatively, he could just let Castiel stay. Get it over and done with. 

Never let it be said that Dean is an awkward shit. Despite what Sam would have you believe.

“Fine.” He slides out from under Castiel who very nearly has him backed up against the wall next to the coat rack. “Follow me.” He moves as quickly as he can without making it look super obvious that he’s desperately trying to get away from the gangster and his dark-scented intensity. He aims for the kitchen in the hopes of getting enough of a headstart to warn Sam and Charlie who are in the adjoining dining room. Blood is a bitch to get out of pine furniture and there’s no guarantee that Sam and Charlie meeting Castiel ends without bloodshed.

He leads Castiel past the kids and into the kitchen where Sam and Charlie have drifted in from the dining room  _ (fuck) _ and currently have their heads together, like gossiping mothers. They spring apart as soon as Dean steps through the swing door, Castiel right behind him ( _ double fuck _ ). “Sam, Charlie, this is Castiel that gangster who’s been stalking me. Castiel, Sam-- Charlie.” He steps aside and loosely gestures at his brother and friend in turn. 

The silence that follows is more awkward than that time Dean caught Sam with his pants around his ankles, dick in his hand, and phone sandwiched between his ear and shoulder. 

Pro tip: If you’re going to have phone sex, really you should be making sure that your front door is locked. And that you haven’t asked your big brother to come over for a boy’s night, because Dean might be a kinky son of a bitch, but he draws the line at watching his brother jack it to his sister-in-law’s dirty talk. 

Jess still finds it hilarious. So does Dean (even though he’d been scarred for life). In fact, the only one who doesn’t find it funny when it's brought up intermittently is Sam. Kid has no sense of humor. 

Which is just one in an entire bushel of reasons that this is a bad idea.

Castiel nods at them both in greeting, but says nothing and positions himself in front of the window, just around the kitchen island from Dean, Sam, and Charlie (who may or may not be gaping at the gangbanger in gradient shades of disbelief). He’s unfairly handsome and not for the first time, Dean wonders how open he’d be to Dean paying the debt off in kind (only with Castiel of course, none of that sexual slavery nonsense).

When it seems as though nobody else is gonna get this little shitshow started, Dean repeats Castiel’s bullshit excuse for turning up on his doorstep, “So, err, Cas--- _ tiel _ was just in the neighborhood.” 

“Oh yeah?” Sam says, not missing a beat, turning his disbelieving,  _ are-you-a-sandwich-short-of-a-picnic?  _ look on Dean like he thinks Dean believes the non-excuse, then ratchets his hostility meter up to eleven just for Castiel, “A lot of business to be done in gated communities, I suppose? Cocaine is all the rage at community barbecues and middle-class fundraisers, is it?”

“You’d be surprised,” Castiel replies without an ounce of irony, head tilted slightly as he regards Sam with those baby blues. “I think there was a study about it; how the middle-classes are actually fueling gang violence.” He clicks his tongue. “Terrible business all round, really.”

Sam looks like he’s swallowed an entire lemon, rind and all, and under different circumstances, Dean would be seriously enjoying this. 

Unfortunately, Castiel is as unpredictable as he is hot - which is to say,  _ very  _ \- so Dean is anxious as fuck to hear what the gangster has to say, so that he can fuck off and Dean can commence his regularly scheduled freak out.

The four of them lapse into uncomfortable silence again.

“We didn’t know the money was yours.” Charlie blurts abruptly, all casual-like, as though she’s accidentally let slip a BFF’s secret, rather than robbing a crime syndicate. “We’re  _ really  _ sorry.”

Castiel quirks his left eyebrow. It’s hotter than it has any right to be. 

Apparently he’s not the only one who thinks so. 

“Dude,” Charlie all but stage whispers in Dean’s general direction, “you weren’t wrong; he is totally hot.” 

Which is the very opposite of helpful in this situation really.

If Dean could click his ruby slippers together and will himself out of this situation, or at the very least conjure up a (extremely) localized tornado, he totally would. As it is, he settles for awkwardly shifting his weight as he watches Castiel closely, an indecipherable emotion flickering across his face before his expression defaults back to impassive. 

Dean’s not even sure what to say here; does he deny that he thinks the dude is hot? Or will rescinding a compliment anger him? Dean knows next to nothing about the guy - what if he’s a raging homophobe?

Fuck. 

_ There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. _

Sam’s contemplatively quiet just behind Dean. 

The same can’t be said for Charlie. Apparently having sensed a chink in Castiel’s armor, she goes for... _ something _ . “Just because I like girls doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a pretty face, y’know?” Her sneakers squeak on the linoleum as she gets closer to Castiel, who looks as mystified as Dean (and undoubtedly Sam) feels.

Yeahhhh... they sure as shit ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.

He’s not sure what Charlie’s game plan is, can’t quite figure what angle she’s going for, but he’s more than content to watch - for now. He just hopes that Castiel is more charmed than displeased, but again, he’s so mercurial that Dean can’t call which way this is gonna go. 

Charlie continues, voice sly and knowing, “Why do you think I keep these two pretty dumbasses around if not for the eye candy?”

At that, Castiel makes an amused sound in the back of his throat, and it instantly drains some of the tension in the room. Dean almost feels sick with gratitude.

“So let’s just say, we’re all too beautiful to be smart. Apart from you, of course.” 

Castiel's lips twitch against a smile. “Interesting tactic.”

Charlie curtseys, elaborate Queen of Moondor that she is, “It’s mostly true too.” 

Castiel’s eyes scan past Charlie to Dean. “I can see that.”

_ Wait, what? _

Dean isn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted. Either way, tension effectively diffused, he mutters, “God, I need a fucking drink.”

Maybe there’s hope for them all yet, maybe they can all sit around and discuss this like the responsible adult criminals they are. Dean opens the fridge and appraises his booze options. There’s not much beyond a two-thirds of a six pack of beer, a chunk of that horrific stinky cheese Benny loves, and some mouldy vegetables. 

So Dean and Ben might have been living off takeaways for a little while; Benny always did the grocery shopping. 

He can hear Charlie chattering away to Castiel, “---yeah, it’s been a while since Dean got any and y’know I thought he was exaggerating---”

Yeah, they won’t all be sitting around singing kum-bay-yah any time soon.

Dean slams the refrigerator door shut, a couple of the beer bottles held by their necks in one hand.

“--Charlie.” He interrupts sweetly through clenched teeth, patient as he can manage. “Don’t you think it’s time you and Sam went home?”

Charlie shoots Dean a quizzical look, one palm curled around the scary gangster’s admittedly defined bicep, and Dean’s beginning to wonder if that tornado he wished for earlier really has swept them all off to fucking Oz, “...No?”

Sam’s scowling away in the corner, fists bleeding white around the knuckles -  _ so that’s a no to Oz, unless it’s the show on HBO  _ \- and it really is time for them to fuck off before Sam blows a fuse.

He claps his brother on the shoulder, leans in just enough in order to be heard by Sam and nobody else, “You’d better get home to that wife of yours, man. I can handle it from here.”

“I’m not leaving you, Dean.” His brother replies, ever the stubborn, loyal ass. 

“Yes, you are.” Dean insists quietly, “It’s not up for discussion, Sammy. I have to sort this shit out myself. It’s fine, honestly.”

Upon receiving a tight nod of grudging assent from his brother, Dean uncaps the beers and comes around the island to offer one to Castiel, who takes it with an almost grateful half-smile. 

“Hey, where are our beers?” Charlie asks, pouting in a way that makes Dean think of her as the little sister he never wanted, but is stuck with regardless. 

“You’re leaving remember?” 

Sam appears behind Dean and Charlie, deliberately drawing himself to his full height. Dean’s no shortass and neither is Castiel, but with Sam’s bulk and height, he makes for an intimidating figure. Dean braces for Sam kicking off, but thankfully his brother simply inclines his head towards the door. “Come on, Charlie. I’ll drive you.”

With a truly dramatic sigh, Charlie bids Castiel a farewell. Suitably charmed, Castiel actually smiles at her and wishes her goodnight. Dean breathes a sigh of relief that the worst is over.

Of course, that’s the precise moment it all goes to shit. 

“Dean?”

All eyes in the kitchen turn toward the new presence standing there in the doorway, strong arms laden with grocery bags and suddenly Dean feels too wretched for words. 

“Benny,” he breathes on a harsh exhale, far too wide-eyed and caught out. 

Well this is just fucking perfect.

  
  


***

  
  


Benny’s been uncharacteristically quiet so far. It unnerves Dean in the same way that he’s thankful for his ex’s apparent descent into mutism. 

“Weren’t you two just leaving?” Dean directs over to his brother and friend, now seated at the dining table with their invisible popcorn.

“Nope,” Charlie says, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Please do ignore us.”

Assholes.

“If anyone’s leavin',” Benny says, voice hard, eyes on Castiel. “It should be this guy.”

Castiel appears unfazed by Benny’s peacocking. He’s probably killed more people than Benny’s had birthdays. 

And yeahhh, that thought should not be making Dean’s heart beat faster and his dick harder. 

Castiel lifts the beer bottle to his mouth, resting the cool glass rim on the pillow of his lower lip. He closes his eyes as he drinks, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow, tattoo moving over the surface of his skin, and  _ fuck _ this is the sexiest power move that Dean’s ever been witness to.

His lips are shiny and wet when he finally ceases his porno scene with the bottle, and when his eyes open, they immediately focus on Dean with laser beam intensity. Dean’s helpless under the heat of it; he’s pinned, heart pounding arrhythmically against the cage of his ribs. 

Fuck.

“I  _ really _ think you should leave.” Benny emphatically reiterates, aggression coming off him in waves, and the tension in the room needs a fucking chainsaw to cut through it. 

“Yeah?” Castiel replies lazily, finally tearing his eyes away from Dean, mercifully leaving him to focus on getting his breath back.

“Yeah.” Benny grates out, not advancing yet, just looming.

“Benny.” Dean tries, endeavoring to get to his ex, before his ex gets to his… gangster? “Let’s put our measuring sticks away, shall we?”

“Nooo--” Charlie wails dramatically, “Let’s see them. Get them out guys, show us what you’re made of! The current beau versus the ex!”

Again, supremely unhelpful.

Hand on his ex’s strong shoulder, desperately trying to stop him before he does something that’ll end with a hit out on all of their asses, quite possibly a little hysterical in the original sense of the word, Dean lets out a burst of laughter, “I swear you’re the straightest lesbian I’ve ever met --”

“Hey, so what if I can appreciate aesthetics no matter the gender --”

“You’d better get out of my house right now.” Benny growls, muscles coiled tight under his Henley, and Dean - lifetime antagonist - doesn’t deign to correct him. 

“I assume you’re going to make me?” Castiel retorts, apparently reverting to a six-year-old on the playground, except with a dark menace that Dean’s pretty sure only six-year-olds who wet the bed, set fires, and torture neighborhood cats can pull off quite this effectively.

“I assume you think I can’t?” Benny says, “I won’t even break a sweat.”

“You look like you break a sweat walking to your car, so I highly doubt--”

“Oh fuck you, you--”

Dean tilts his head back on the biggest sigh he can manage without completely exhaling his entire lung capacity. “Ahh you two are killing me.”

And then suddenly Benny’s across the kitchen, not quite nose-to-nose with Castiel, but achingly close; Charlie’s one step away from chanting ‘fight, fight, fight!’ and Sam looks like he’s about to pass out from fury or stress or both, so Dean makes an executive decision. In his best stern dad voice, he yells, “Benny, upstairs. Castiel, wait here. Sam and Charlie - fuck off home. Now.”

  
  
  
  


***

As soon as the bedroom door shuts behind them, Benny is off like a firework, red-faced and breathing hard like he used to after one of their marathon fuck sessions, sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, sweat-slick bodies, hearts pounding, every muscle aching in that oh-so-good way...

_ Not helpful. _

“What the fuck is he doin' in our house, Dean--”

“ _ My  _ house.” Dean corrects quietly, petulantly, not showing the same restraint as ten minutes earlier.

If looks could kill, Dean’d be stone cold dead. Ooh, plot twist, maybe he already is. Though this is a pretty shit afterlife if that’s true. Perhaps this is what Hell is like; perpetually arguing over the same shit, getting tortured by a stupidly hot gangster, constantly on edge and not in the way that Dean’s been known to enjoy. “-- he was at the bake sale! And don’t think that I didn’t hear about him showin' up at Ben’s baseball game!”

“Yeah,  _ you _ were noticeably absent from that though.”

Benny sucks in a breath that Dean knows is more about his husband’s internal battle for control than it is for actually needing the air. “I had to be at work, Dean. You know that.”

“I know that’s what you  _ tell _ me. But we both know that you’re not always one hundred percent truthful, right?”

Benny’s restaurant has invariably been the first love of his life. It’s something that Dean has had to live with throughout their relationship, but had no real issue doing because the man is a talented chef and Dean loves to eat, so he  _ gets _ the fascination. But. 

But in the back of Dean’s mind, he always had a  _ feeling _ .

Finding out about Benny’s infidelity was almost a relief of sorts; validation and the weight of suspicion lifted from Dean’s shoulders. 

“Fuck, cher.” Benny groans, fight seeping out of him. He’s just as tired as Dean is, dark circles like bruises pressed in deep below his eyes. “Just tell me, do I even have a chance here?”

For a moment, Dean’s utterly puzzled, not sure what Benny’s referring to. When it finally clicks a long moment later, he barely refrains from letting out a shocked laugh. 

“No.” Dean says as clearly as he can. “I’m not sure how you haven’t quite got this yet, but you blew the only chance you’d ever get, when you let Andrea blow you.”

Benny sets his jaw like he’s receiving unwelcome, but inevitable news. “Okay,” he says to himself, then louder, confirming, “Okay.”

Before Dean can process what’s happening, Benny is turning on his heel, yanking open the bedroom door and striding out into the hall. In a daze, Dean follows him, traipsing down the stairs, nearly careening into Benny’s broad back when he stops dead at the entrance to the living room.

Dean moves around him, curious as to what has Benny distracted. Charlie and Sam scuttled off home pretty sharpish after Dean’s dad yell, so it’s only the two of them, the kids and--

Oh.  _ Oh.  _

Benny’s staring daggers at Castiel, who is sandwiched comfortably between Casey and Ben on the couch, PS4 controller in hand, eyes focussed studiously on the fifty-inch screen across the room. 

For the millionth time since they met, Dean’s struck by the sheer hotness of the fucker. Even his profile is strikingly handsome; sharp jaw with just enough scruff to cause some seriously wonderful stubble burn on Dean’s thighs.

_ Again, super helpful. _

Ben turns to look up Dean and Benny, childlike innocence and enthusiasm overriding the sheer awkwardness and tension of the situation. “He’s really good at this game, dad!”

On screen, the character that Castiel is controlling is repeatedly slamming a dude’s head in a car door.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is.” Dean mutters.

Behind him, Benny slams the front door so hard that he nearly takes it off its hinges.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thank you so much for all of your kind words and encouragement on the previous chapter - I love reading your questions, theories, and favourite bits!
> 
> This chapter almost definitely needs a little more editing and work, but I'm posting it now because if I don't, I never will! Hopefully it's not too rough and still contributes enough to the plot - I do have a vague plan, I swear!

Thursdays are Dean’s least favorite day. Nothing exciting has ever happened on a Thursday. For Dean, Thursdays are the day in the week that he dedicates to all the household chores he hates doing the other six days. It’s his only full day off from work, and Ben spends the next couple of nights with Lisa and Dr. Matt. It’s therefore the perfect time for him to blast one of his guilty pleasure playlists without fear of judgment from anybody, least of all an eleven year old. 

When they first got together, he and Benny used to have a date night on Thursdays. Always at some fancy restaurant that Dean had never heard of and couldn’t hope to pronounce properly, but kinda loved in all its pomposity. 

Those nights out dwindled away as they do when there are two busy business owners in a relationship (and one of them’s cheating), so Thursday nights (and by default, the days) have become Dean’s time alone. Sometimes he enjoys the peace and quiet (and Taytay), yet other times he feels antsy in a way that he can’t quite pinpoint.

Today is one of the antsy days. It’s a restlessness at his core that seems to spread outwards right to the tips of his fingers, turning him into a massive bundle of nerves and tension. 

He switches the washing machine on. It gurgles to life.

_ ‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I'll be the hero that you're dreaming of. We'll live forever, knowing together--’ _

Dean stares down at his phone in the empty laundry basket like it’s haunted. 

He changed his ringtone back several days ago. Sam’s called him today and it was the usual  _ Smoke on the Water. _

The ringing stops. Dean waits, all breathless Final Girl in a horror movie. 

_ ‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I'll be the hero that you're dreaming of--’ _

He snatches the phone up. The caller ID tells him it’s CAS. 

Heart thudding in his chest, Dean answers it. “Castiel?”

“Hello, Dean.” There’s a short pause, a heartbeat shared between them, and then Castiel says, “You’re doing the job tonight.”

“Tonight?” Dean repeats, incredulous. “And you couldn’t have given me the heads up a little earlier? What if I was busy?”

“Are you busy?” Another heartbeat, then, “I’ll leave a car in the Kwik Bargainz parking lot. Inside there will be a piece of paper with your instructions and the address you need to go to. Get to the lot for seven.”

Before Dean can even catch his breath, Castiel hangs up.

  
  


***

There are few more perfect couples in the world than Sam and Jess. They love each other intensely and Jess’ quick wit has always made her popular with Dean and vice versa. Sometimes, Dean teases that she’s far too good for Sammy, and Jess, with a light-hearted laugh, agrees that Sam would crash and burn without her. Deep-down though, Dean knows that it’s all jokes; they just fit in such a satisfying way that he struggles not to be jealous of. Because he’s loved people before - he got married for fucks’ sake - of course he has, but he’s never felt such a bone-deep connection with another person before. He’s never had that I-need-to-be-with-you-forever-or-I’m-gonna-die feeling. 

Sam and Jess met at Stanford law school. Sam dropped out in his first year to help Dean with his business, when it had really started to turn over serious some money in its fourth year. Dean strongly opposed it at the time (and still feels immensely guilty about it now), but Sam had been insistent that he helped out and he turned up on Dean’s doorstep before Dean could stop him. Jess stayed on at Stanford for another year until she discovered that she was pregnant with Madison and dropped out to eventually work her way through the police academy instead. 

It’s through Jess and her position at the LPD that they discover there’s some DNA found in the safe of the robbed Kwik Bargainz store,  _ you remember that robbery I mentioned, Sam? _

And oh yeah, Sam remembers. Sam remembers intimately because it’s his fucking stupid sasquatch sweat that he’d wiped off his stupid sasquatch forehead with the back of his stupid sasquatch hand as he’d ‘ordered’ Charlie to open the damn safe or risk getting her brains blown out (with a stupid toy gun).

All that wouldn’t necessarily have been a problem, if he’d stuck to the plan and kept his hands to himself, but he did neither. Ever the helpful asshole, Sam and his sweaty hands helped Charlie grab the money out of the safe and now his DNA is all up in that shit.

Sam relays all this to him as Dean’s sitting in his Impala outside the Kwik Bargainz at 6:53 pm.

“Sam,” Dean says tightly, line crackling between them. “I have my own crap to be dealing with right now.”

A silver Honda from the 90s pulls into the parking space next to his. There's a fine tremble in Dean's hand where he's gripping the steering wheel so tight that the skin taut across his knuckles is bleach white.

“What the hell am I going to do, Dean? I’ve seen CSI, they’ll run my DNA through AFIS--”

“--You clearly weren’t paying attention though, Sammy. If they’ve got nothing to match it to, then them having your sweat won’t mean jack shit.”

Dean’s only a little disappointed when the dude that gets out of the Honda isn’t Castiel. This guy is short with lighter hair and eyes, but he shoots Dean a shit-eating grin and a very unsubtle thumbs up.

_Oh._

If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say that Castiel is pissed at him, but fortunately, he does know better, so he chalks Castiel’s lack of communication (and brusqueness when they do actually talk) up to him having better things to do than walking a novice suburbanite through criminality 101. 

Sam is still working himself into a lather at the other end of the phone, so Dean flippantly says: “Just get Jess to steal the sample if you’re that freaked out,” and ends the call. 

It’s probably not the most sensible advice, but Dean really does have his own shit to focus on. Sam’s a big boy, he’ll figure it out. 

  
  


***

  
  


So, Sam figured it out.

And now he’s sleeping on the couch because he’s not the man that Jess married and it’s all Dean’s fault apparently, that Sam asked his police officer wife to steal evidence from an ongoing investigation. Sam had tried to play it off at her incredulous expression, but that had lead to her asking him (quite rightly) what the fuck was going on, which then resulted in Sam spilling everything like a fucking snitch.

Dean knew that the pickup/dropoff situation earlier on in the night had gone far too smoothly which meant that something else had to be falling apart at the same time.

Turns out it was his brother’s marriage.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Dean tells Sam for the twenty-second time that evening. 

His brother’s on the bourbon and that’s not good for anyone, but Dean’s on the whisky, so he’s past the point of caring. Desperate times call for desperate times alcohol. 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees morosely, staring down the dregs of his drink. Dean reaches for the bottle and pours in enough to make it slosh at the rim of the glass. “I thought she’d understand y’know?”

“Yeahhh, no. I don’t know Sammy. She’s a cop. What she understands is that her husband and father of her child walked into a store with a gun--”

Sam starts to pipe up, but Dean cuts him off at the pass.

“It doesn’t matter that it was a toy, dude. We’ll still get done for armed robbery.”

Sam sighs, weight of the world on his shoulders and Dean doesn’t know what to do to make this better. He’s always done his best to take care of his brother, but lately he feels like he’s failing. First, he couldn’t do anything to help his niece and now this. 

Vision swimming, he reaches for Sam’s wrist across the circular kitchen table. “It’s gonna be okay, man. We’ll figure something out.” He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince anymore, but either way it doesn't seem to be working. Sam nods, looking thoroughly miserable. Always desperate to cheer his baby brother up during difficult times, Dean tries to lighten the mood, “We should go to a strip club or some shit, this might be our last night of freedom!”

Sam’s face crumples entirely, seconds away from the waterworks and Dean inwardly winces.

Well, shit. 

_ ‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I'll be the hero that you're dreaming of. We'll live for--’ _

Dean ignores the call. He did the job as requested. He owes Castiel absolutely nothing now. He’s gonna burn that counterfeit money tomorrow once he retrieves it from the safe at work. 

Fuck Castiel and his stupid fucking face.

Interestingly, the job actually hadn’t been as bad as Dean had initially feared. At least not on the surface. His instructions had led him to one of those beige mover’s trucks in an empty mall parking lot, just south of the city. It had no license plate, looked sketchy AF, and with Dean’s luck being on a par with that couple who’ve been caught up in more terrorist attacks than John McClane, he had been fairly concerned about getting pulled the fuck over by the police, or the damn thing blowing up, or being full of human beings or some shit. 

Still, a job’s a job and if it doesn’t involve Dean selling the entirety of his body or just a couple of organs, he’s mostly able to square it with his conscience, so after some deliberation, he did it. Drove it from place A on the piece of paper, to place B on the piece of paper.

Turns out, he needn’t have worried at-freaking-all.

Not only did he not get pulled over by the cops, but there were no bodies, organs, drugs, stolen merch, or trafficked sex workers in the back.

As a matter of fact, there was nothing. Nada, zip, zilch. The thing was completely empty.

On the face of it, this seems like a good thing. Dean didn’t technically do anything illegal, and even if he did, nobody in a position to do anything about it noticed. He also technically got paid a hundred grand for the job, since their debt with the gun-toting gangsters is now canceled. 

And yet...

_ ‘I am a man who will fight for your hon--’ _

“Answer the phone, Dean.” Sam murmurs, bringing the overly full glass to his lips, sloshing it all down his shirt and over the table. 

“Drunkard,” Dean mutters fondly, slides his finger to ignore, tiny thrill at the disobedience.

“Maybe he can help,” Sam adds, banging the empty tumbler down onto the wood with a dull thud. 

“Oh _ yeah _ , because he’s been  _ so  _ helpful up until now.” 

Dean won’t admit that he’s perhaps more than a little pissed at Castiel at the moment. It’s stupid, he knows it is. They’re not anything to each other, yet Dean had hoped that they at least had a little understanding going on. But if their interaction when Dean drove the truck to address B was anything to go off of, then that’s certainly not the case.

Castiel had been there and Dean had been relieved, if not happy to see him. One semi-friendly face, at least. Even if that face had been all but sucking face with another face. 

On the bright side, it’s a dude that Castiel was apparently eye-fucking, so at least Dean knows that the fucker isn’t homophobic and likely isn’t punishing Dean for Charlie’s admission of his crush.

Not in the most conventional sense at least. Dean’s been rejected enough (not many, just  _ enough _ ) times to know when someone is telling you without  _ actually telling you _ that they’re not interested. Standing there looking like the world’s most dangerous Stepford wife, arm looped around the slender shoulders of a younger, skinnier (but definitely not better looking) blond boy, who couldn’t be a day over twenty is a definite  _ ‘I wouldn’t fuck you, if you were the last suburbanite with good muscle tone and pretty green eyes, on the planet’ _ . 

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your outlook), at this point, Dean still believed that there was something super illegal in the back of the truck, and so was riding kinda high, completely buzzed that he’d gotten away with it, to really pay much attention to how Castiel’s arm tightened around his jailbait the closer Dean got.

For fuck’s sake though, Dean has socks older than that kid. 

Bizarrely, the house had been in a decent neighborhood, and not for the first time, Dean had wondered where Castiel lives. He had looked comfortable on the portico porch in front of the decent sized stucco colonial, backlit by soft lamplight, but it definitely wasn’t somewhere Dean could have seen Castiel living. No, Castiel would live in a spacious loft somewhere, nice and super expensive.

Dean didn’t walk up the couple of the steps onto the porch, just stayed there a foot or so lower than Castiel and jailbait on the short footpath leading up to the house, which was fitting really, because when Castiel informed him that the truck, was in fact, empty, Dean had never felt so small. 

He was relieved, of course, he was, but he was also mildly humiliated as the blond side piece giggled at Dean’s utter dumbfounded expression and apparent naivete that Castiel would entrust him with anything of operational importance. 

“What?” Dean had said, distracted by the burning in his cheeks, traffic-light red undoubtedly visible from the fucking moon, let alone five feet away. 

"I had a kid,” Castiel replied from the porch, not even doing Dean the dignity of coming down off his high horse to meet him. “The feds turned him. I needed to find out how much he told them."

"This was a  _ test _ ?" 

Castiel had shrugged like it ain’t no big thang. Like Dean hadn’t sat in that empty parking lot for over an hour, debating with himself about how much jail time he might get, how many birthdays he might miss. "I needed to know if he talked. I suppose he didn't."

Dean had been about to tell Castiel to go fuck himself when something else occurred to him, "What do you mean, you  _ had _ a kid?"

So yeah. Fuck Castiel. 

And not even literally anymore, because the dude is hot, sure. But he’s also a massive jackass, and Dean has had enough of those to last him a lifetime. Plus, who knows what kind of STDs jailbait is walking around with.

That's probably not fair, but nothing about this situation is.

Of course, just when he needs solidarity from his brother, when he needs a paid up lifetime membership to the ‘Fuck Castiel (and not in a sexy way)’ club, it turns out that the Vice President (because of course Benny is the President) is thinking about quitting. 

Dean adds, “Thought you hated the dude anyway,” and pours himself another whisky. Sam tilts his tumbler towards Dean, so he obliges and fills his brother's glass too.

“Well, yeah.” Sam half burps, half laughs. “He’s not good people and I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

Which is kinda sweet, if a little misguided. 

Sam chugs his drink down like there’s diamonds at the bottom. “Another.”

_ ‘I am a man who will fight for you--”  _

Ignore.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

Sam shakes his head, shaggy hair falling into his face, and Dean’s so tempted to get the kitchen scissors right now. The sasquatch is on the verge of passing out and it would be totally fair revenge for him spilling to his wife about them all being terrible criminals. 

He’ll probably have to crop his hair in jail anyways. Dean’s just eliminating the middle man. 

Sam’s head drops to the table as he passes out. The old Dean would have drawn a dick on his giant forehead, instead, the responsible Dean (who robs grocery stores and gets involved in shady gang business) will draw a kid-friendly mustache and dorky glasses, just as soon as he can find a marker--

_ ‘I am a man who will fight--’ _

“Fucking  _ what _ , Cas?!”

There’s a brief spell of silence at the other end, and when Castiel finally speaks his voice sounds tightly controlled, like just the wrong word could see it all unspooled. “You need to answer when I call.”

“Or what?”

Castiel swears under his breath. “Or I’ll come over there and--”

“Ooh, is this about to be a death threat or a love letter?” Before Castiel can respond, Dean, in a fit of absolute pettiness that he’s totally not proud of, adds, “Better get back to your toyboy, don’t wanna let him hear you flirting with another man. See you around, Cas.”

He switches his phone off with a self-righteous  _ harumph _ and then promptly passes out next to his brother. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly: Your comments give me life - thank you so much <3
> 
> Secondly: I think this might be the slowest of slow-burn fics I've ever written? 
> 
> Thirdly: I should be writing my thesis right now; yay for procrastination!
> 
> Fourthly: Just a warning for a brief mention of suicide.

“Goddamn idjits… Get your overgrown asses up now!”

Dean’s never woken up to a bucket of cold water down the back of his shirt until today. He’s pretty glad that he’s made it to thirty-one years on this planet before he got to experience it though, because it's certainly not something he would recommend. 

He may or may not shriek like a prepubescent girl as he bolts upright, clipping his left kneecap on the underside of the table. “What the fuck!” 

When the mystery blurs standing in his kitchen finally swim into hazy focus, he’s relieved but annoyed to see that it’s Bobby holding a bucket and Charlie holding a...lollipop? “What the hell, Bobby?”

Charlie’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, far too happy for this time of morning. “The water was my idea.”

Dean flips her the bird. He gets it right back with a smile and a fragrant swish of red hair.

Fuckin’ Charlie. 

Bobby’s fishing through the debris of their brotherly bonding/commiserating night, bottles clinking together, throwing them into the recently-emptied bucket. “What got into you two last night?”   


“Well we know what _ didn’t  _ get into Dean last night,” Charlie loudly sucks the striped lollipop into her mouth and Dean’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this.

_ Besides robbing a store and becoming a gangster’s courier service? _

Fair enough.

“The front door was open and there was a package left in the hallway,” Bobby explains, as if Dean’s even close to having enough cognitive function to wonder how they got into the house unaided. 

“Looks like a special delivery.” Charlie waggles her eyebrows and Dean is completely  _ done _ .

He stretches as he stands, scratches at the exposed strip of his skin below the soaked hem of his shirt. “Any reason you left Sleeping Beauty there alone?” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the snoring and drooling form of his brother, the very picture of pitiable middle-aged debauchery.

Bobby’s expression softens just enough for Dean to consider it almost sympathetic, “Jess called me then Charlie last night, asking if we’d seen Sam. She said your phone was off and that she couldn’t get ahold of Sam either.” Bobby empties the bucket into the trash, before walking back over to Sam and dropping it down on the floor next to his feet. 

Probably a wise move. Sam's hangovers usually consist of him puking his guts up for twenty minutes straight and then magically feeling better. Bastard.

“Shit.” Dean mutters, shambling over to the coffee machine, using various kitchen surfaces on his way to help maintain the illusion of balance. “He and Jess had a falling out.” 

“Goddamn,” Bobby agrees carefully as Dean adds a filter to the basket, roughly measures out some coffee, “Musta been something big for those two to fall out.” 

The silence that follows stretches out and Dean doesn’t need to meet Bobby’s eyes to be able to catch how he steadily looks at Dean and then Charlie, purposely communicating disdain without saying a damn word. 

So, he knows then.

_Oh_.

Dean grips the edge of the sink as he waits for the coffee pot to fill. He stares out the kitchen window into the garden and the weedy flower beds that he hasn’t even thought about in weeks. Realistically, there’s only one way in which this situation could be worse and that’s if Castiel was out there, ready to tear Dean a new one for his - _ perhaps _ \- unjustified rudeness last night.

Thankfully, the garden is empty, save for Bumblebee on the picnic table  _ again _ .

Dean’s gonna have to have a talk with Ben about respecting his toys. 

Because of cause, Dean’s clearly a responsible adult capable of teaching a child how to respect stuff. 

Dean throws a quick look over his shoulder, and yup, Bobby is still staring at him, expression on his weatherworn face running the gamut from angry, to empty resignation, to understanding and then looping back around to anger again.

It’s right around the time that Dean’s shuffling along the counter back to the coffee pot that he realizes he has nothing to say, no defense for the indefensible, so he attempts to stall for time as he wills his brain to cooperate. 

“So…” He starts awkwardly, finally turning to face Bobby and his fate, the percolator kicking in on the counter behind him. 

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two--

“So you’re a bunch of fucking idjits!”

“That’s probably fair,” Dean admits.

“We didn’t think it through,” Charlie adds.

“Damn right you didn’t think it through!” Bobby hollers, face flushing with color. Sam snuffles in his sleep, drools a little more on his arm, but doesn’t wake up. Lucky bastard. “Do you even realize what you’ve done?”

“Committed a felony?” Dean half-jokes. 

Bobby doesn’t see the funny side, “I could wring your goddamn neck, boy! You’ve got a kid, Dean. So has Sam, you can’t be pulling this kind of shit like you’re a pair of punk kids yourselves!”

“I did it for him!” Dean defends, “I did it so that I wouldn’t lose the only home I’ve ever been able to give him. Sam did it so that he didn’t have to watch his daughter die a slow and painful death on the fucking bottom rung waiting list! Charlie did it--” Dean flails, trying and failing to think of Charlie’s reasoning - beyond ‘wenches’ anyways.

“So that I could give Dorothy the wedding that she deserves.” Charlie supplies, completely serious.

Dean turns his attention to her then, kinda impressed, but also desperate to tease her, just a little bit, “That’s sickeningly sweet.”

Charlie pulls a face around the lollipop in her mouth, “I know, disgusting, right?”

Bobby sighs, the only sensible human being in a kitchen full of morons. “Look, I hate to bring a little reality to this bubble you’ve all been living in, and as sweet as your motives are, I can’t just ignore that you’re all wanted criminals!”

His coffee is finally ready, rich scent filling the whole space, but Dean doesn’t dare move, waiting with bated breath and pit-of-his-soul dread on what Bobby’s going to say next.

“What are you gonna do, Bobby?” Charlie asks, visibly nervous in a way that Dean has only seen a handful of times in the years he’s known her. It unsettles him more than Bobby’s justifiable rage. 

“I know what I ought to do,” Bobby says, “I ought to phone the cops right now and turn your fool asses in.”

Fuck. Shit, fuck.

Noticing what must be sheer, unadulterated panic on Dean’s face, he quickly adds, “I’m not going to turn you in. I  _ should _ , but I won’t.”

Dean sags against the counter, relief palpable. “What about Jess? Is she--?”

Bobby shakes his head. “Of course she’s not going to tattle on the love of her life, his stupid-ass brother and their stupid-ass friend.”

Fuck. 

“You’ve put her in a difficult position though. What’s she supposed to do with what Sam told her last night?”

It’s a good question - one that Dean feels he should have the answer to, but doesn’t. Just like Dean doesn’t have the answers to any of this fucking nightmare that they’ve Elm-Streeted their way straight into. 

Dean sighs, leans his weight into the cut granite corner, headache blooming behind his eyes.

When Dean was nine and Sammy was five, Dean - dressed as Superman - jumped off the shed roof. Sammy - dressed as Batman - followed him, breaking his arm in the process. Sam has  _ always _ followed Dean, looked up to his older brother (figuratively not literally these days), with a reverence Dean has never felt was warranted, but whether that’s true or not, perhaps it’s time Dean takes some responsibility for the influence that he has over his brother and stops flippantly dismissing his brother’s very fair concerns. 

Maybe if Dean had been there for him, his brother wouldn’t have looked for any excuse to spill everything to someone else.

“You’re right, Bobby.” Dean concedes with another sigh, this one is less melodrama and more a deep-rooted resignation.

He pours a cup of coffee, lurches across the kitchen, and slams it down onto the table in front of his brother. Kicks at his stupid gangly legs until he finally snuffles awake. “Ugh...Wha?”

“Everybody knows that Superman can fly and Batman can’t, you absolute dipshit. Now drink your coffee so that we can go fix this.”

  
  


***

The sun is sinking low in the sky by the time Dean finally gets home, painting the horizon in shades of red and amber. It’s evenings like this that Dean wishes he had an artistic bone in his body, so that he could capture the image on canvas, instead of simply admiring the purty sunset with every other yahoo. 

He tosses his keys onto the sideboard, watches dispassionately as they slide off the shiny surface and fall to the floor. Because of course they do.

He shucks off his jacket, hangs it on the nearest hook to the door. Just inside, on the bench with a box of Ben’s toys  _ the package  _ sits, looking pretty innocuous in and of itself. It’s no bigger than a paperback book; it would have easily fit through the mail slot in the door. 

Dean’s learning that Castiel is kinda extra though. 

He stands there and just stares for a few moments, wavering uncertainly between opening the package/potential can of worms and simply ignoring Castiel and his bullshit for a bit longer by going for a shower/sleep/jerk off session.

The last option has absolutely nothing to do with the irksome hotness of the aforementioned gang leader. 

He finally makes his decision and turns away from the bench, and begins slowly trudging up the staircase.

He’s too emotionally compromised after a day spent with Sam and Jess, hashing out exactly how they’re going to move forward with this shitstorm they’ve created, to deal with Castiel’s shit without fortification. For now, Sam is relegated to the couch while they sort through everything; a light punishment if you ask Dean, but then again, he should be thankful that the absolutely  _ furious  _ Jessica hadn’t marched down to the station last night simply on principle. 

Her dumbshit husband and his asshole brother turning up sweating alcohol out of every pore at eleven-thirty in the morning hadn’t been an ideal start to proceedings either.

Dean makes it to the top of the stairs and stumbles his way down the hallway to the ensuite bathroom. 

Standing in the doorway he debates the merits of a shower versus sleep. 

Shower equals clean, but sleep is sleep. He can get clean in the morning.

But then, he’s got an early shift and there’s a pretty high risk of him utilizing the snooze function on his Shakin Bacon alarm clock that Charlie got him as a gag gift a few birthdays ago. He can’t really afford to piss Bobby off anymore right now by adding lateness on top of his felony.

One very brisk whiff in the vague direction of his armpits, which lets him know that he definitely hasn’t gotten through the last day without becoming disgustingly ripe, seals the deal.

He goes over to the shower and turns the water on via the thermostat mounted on the wall. 

He sheds his clothes, brushes his teeth as he waits for the water to reach temperature. He checks the spray before he gets in, satisfied that it’s not so hot it’ll peel the skin from his bones, nor is it so cold that his penis will retract right into his body. 

He steps in and pulls the cubicle door closed behind himself. 

Eyelids fluttering shut, he turns into the hot spray. It hits him full in the face, fills his mouth, spills down his chin. It’s soothing, makes him feel even drowsier. He bows his head, letting the spray soak and mat his hair, heating his scalp.

He turns around, so that the water is hitting the back of his head and neck, streaming down his back, over the swell of his ass, and down his legs. He stands motionless for a while, just savoring the feel of it, letting the warmth soak into his bones, letting it cleanse him of the past 24 hours. 

Jesus Christ, what the fuck has his life become? This isn’t who he is. For all his flaws (and there are  _ a lot) _ Dean’s generally dependable these days (after some reckless teen years) and the version of him that married Benny certainly wouldn’t have dared to pull half of the shit that he has in the last few weeks. 

Maybe that's sort of the point.

Well, it’s over now. At least the part that involves Castiel is. They still have to contend with the police, but there'll be no gun-toting gangsters in Dean’s foreseeable.

He doesn’t even attempt to analyze why that comes as a disappointment. 

He begins to soap himself, woodsy scent mingling with the steam as he desperately tries to avoid thinking about Castiel and that boytoy of his last night. 

And fails.

Like, what the fuck even was that? Besides a massive neon flashing ‘FUCK OFF’ sign, of course. Dean’s twisting himself in knots over some asshole who’s busy getting his dick wet with anyone who looks his way (apart from Dean) and okay, he’s not jealous,  _ he’s not, _ it’s just---

Okay, so maybe he’s a little jealous. 

Ugh. 

It’s not like Dean’s thought about it. At all. 

Not that he’s imagined himself in place of that kid on the porch standing next to Castiel, possessive bruises in the shape of Castiel’s fingerprints on Dean’s skin. 

Dean’s hips holding Castiel in place, suffocating in his kiss, sweat-slick and fucked out, fingernails digging into his shoulder blades, tiny scars that ensure Dean’ll always be with him, a part of him. 

The width of Castiel’s palm on Dean’s throat, fingertips fluttering like the wings on his neck tat, kissing Dean breathless as he fucks him, slow and torturous.

No, Dean’s not imagined it at all.

Fuck. 

Just as Dean’s wrapping a hand around his hard cock, stroking himself from base to tip once, his phone goes off.

_ ‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I'll be the hero that you're dreaming of. We'll live forever, knowing--’ _

_ Fuck. _

He internally debates whether or not to answer, but he’s on the apology tour today and so he might as well go for the big finish with Castiel. Shoving open the cubicle door with a damp palm against cool, slick glass, he steps out. His phone is in his pants, crumpled up in a heap next to the sink, so Dean grabs a towel off the rail, wraps it around his waist, securing it with a knot at his hip, and barely manages to scramble for his phone before the ringtone cuts out.

“‘Lo?”

There’s nobody at the other end, nothing but a kind of static silence.

The shower is still going behind him, and the rush of water is kinda loud, so Dean steps into the carpeted bedroom, closing the bathroom door shut behind himself with a soft bump.

He lifts the phone to his ear, keeping it a safe distance away from his damp skin, lest he have to pay through the nose for water damage again, “Hello? Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.” Abruptly, there’s the cold press of metal at his left temple and the unmistakable masculine scent of everyone’s (mostly Dean’s) favorite gangster.

Well, _ shit. _

  
  
  


***

“Y’know, I’ve had a really shitty day, so if you could just kill me and get it over with, I’d be super grateful.”

Dean’s sitting on the edge of his bed in just a towel, getting the clean sheets all damp. He clenches his teeth against the chill in the air, droplets of water clinging to his skin and cooling there. Conversely, Castiel is fully dressed in his usual attire, except with the addition of a skinny black tie over his long-sleeved navy shirt, which is neatly tucked into plain black dress pants.

He looks like a hipster business exec as he leans against the closed bedroom door, arms folded across the crisp shirt pulling tight against the delicious cut of muscle beneath. 

Dean drags his gaze reluctantly away from Castiel’s chest and stutters over the gun - thankfully not pointed at Dean’s head - tucked into the waistband of Castiel’s pants, and amends his previous thought. Castiel looks like a high ranking member of the Russian Mafia or some shit, all power and deadly poise. He’s absolutely terrifying, but… but  _ fuck, _ if he isn’t the most attractive thing Dean’s ever seen. 

Unfortunate, really then, that this is not the situation Dean had hoped for when imagining Castiel in his bedroom.

Unless Castiel is about to take off his well-fitting clothes - maybe leave the tie - and join Dean on the bed. 

_ Not likely. _

Castiel does that thing with his eyebrow again. Yeahhh, still insanely hot. “Do you _ want _ me to kill you?”

Dean thinks his expression speaks for itself, really. Just in case it doesn’t, he smarts, “Yeah, sure. I’ve always wanted to go out mostly naked and piss-my-pants terrified of a volatile asshole with a gun.”

There’s a faint twist of a smile on Castiel’s mouth when he says, “You have no idea how tempted I am to make that a reality for you.”

Dean’s pretty sure he has  _ some _ idea. Still, he’s alive for now and can only assume it’s for a reason, so he sighs, lets it sit between them as he waits for Castiel to get to the crux of the matter. Hopefully before Dean dies from hypothermia, or before he manages to snark his way into a bullet between the eyes. He shifts on the bed, thoroughly underdressed and uncomfortable.

Unluckily for Dean, he’s up against the King of the poker face, so it’s up to him to break the proverbial ice. “Can I at least get dressed?”

Castiel’s eyes dip downwards, snagging on the slice of Dean’s left thigh visible through the opening in the towel. “No.”

Dean’s pulse jack-rabbits, heart kicking into high gear from either fear or lust; the two have become intricately interlaced since Cas’ first appearance, so at this point it’s hard to tell, “No?”

“No.” Castiel confirms, eyes back on Dean’s face, then just to be an asshole, adds, “Thought it was your dream to  _ ‘go out mostly naked and piss-your-pants terrified _ .’ I’m here to make your dream come true. Just call me Oprah.”

Dean blinks once, twice. He’s pretty sure that Oprah never pulled anything like this, but then what does he know? He gets the spirit of Castiel’s not-so-veiled threat, so he bites his tongue against an undoubtedly witty retort. “Very funny. Why are you here, Castiel?"

Castiel tilts his head ever-so-slightly, “You hung up on me, then ignored my calls. How else am I to get in touch with you?”

He makes it sound reasonable, like the normal response to being ghosted is to charge round to someone's house and hold a gun to their head. 

In Castiel's world, it probably is. 

And therein lies the problem, really. As far as Dean is concerned, Castiel is Schrodinger's gangster. He's a violent criminal until proven otherwise, but he's also a pretty serious crush for Dean until proven otherwise. Essentially, Dean isn't quite sure how to behave around him. On the one hand, he's kinda terrified, but also turned on, and on the other, he's sort of comforted by Castiel's competence and relatively high tolerance for Dean's bullshit, but also turned on. 

Dean doesn't really know what to do with that information.

All he knows is that he needs to tread carefully, but there’s something about Castiel that makes it nearly impossible to be sensible. Dean constantly wants to push up against him (not in a sexy way, but that too) and see how far he can press and shove and prod before Castiel snaps. In this situation, he’s not sure what snapping entails; whether it’s throwing Dean onto the bed and giving him the fuck of his life, or putting a bullet in his brain. Either way, he should be erring on the side of caution, so he takes a deep, cleansing breath and then promptly ignores his own advice. “Okay. Let me get this straight. I hung up on you because you’re a  _ complete  _ jackass, so you came to my house, broke in, and put a fucking gun to my head… all because, what? I hurt your fucking feelings?”

Castiel appears to consider Dean’s version of events, “Admittedly, from your perspective it may seem unwarranted, unnecessary, and even a bit excessive. But from my perspective, you--” For the first time in any of their interactions, Castiel flounders, fumbling for an explanation that neither of them will be convinced by. “--are utterly  _ infuriating _ .”

“So I’ve been told.” Dean mutters, studying Castiel closely, trying to see cracks in the facade in the way that Charlie apparently had. 

Nope, nothing.

Castiel shifts his weight, moving away from the door and dropping his arms to his sides. He doesn’t reach for his gun yet, but Dean senses that it’s a conscious effort for him not to, “You really should answer when I call.”

Trying not to show just how nervous Castiel makes him, hedging his bets, Dean asks, “Why? Our business is done, man.” A horrible thought dawns on him as Castiel stops at the foot of the bed, a mere arm’s length from Dean, “Isn’t it?”

Castiel doesn’t look at him directly, suddenly profoundly interested in a bedside lamp over Dean’s shoulder. 

“Isn’t it?” Dean asks again, swallowing around a lump in his throat, “I’m gonna need to hear you say it, Castiel.”

“Yes,” Castiel says eventually, sounding not entirely happy about it, “Our business is done. The debt is paid.”

Dean exhales on a long, relieved sigh. 

Thank fuck.

“So then why would I answer when you call?” Dean asks, in his best reasonable voice that he uses when justifying a frivolous purchase to Benny or his son, “I’m not one of your gangbangers or...boytoys, so why would you and I ever need to talk?”

Something in Castiel’s expression hardens and Dean gets the impression that he’s said the wrong thing, but for the life of him can’t figure out what the fuck it is. He subconsciously leans away, out of range of Castiel’s looming presence, very aware of his own nakedness (not that he’s stopped being aware since he stepped out of the bathroom) and Castiel’s proximity.

“You should show me some respect.” Castiel drops down onto his haunches in front of Dean, and Dean’s struck all over again by the strength in those thick thighs. Castiel’s  _ right freakin’ there _ , and Dean nearly goes cross-eyed trying to watch his face, as they practically share breath, “You’ve stolen from me, insulted me, been an insouciant, infuriating prick, and on top of that, you don’t answer the fucking phone--” He cuts himself off with an annoyed growl and rises up to his full height again, which is kind of a shame, because Dean was enjoying seeing that glorious face up close and personal, even if it was calling Dean a prick. 

Castiel looks down at him and there’s something burning around the edges of his glare. “I actually came here to see if you got my parcel, and I didn’t break in, the door was open.” 

“Potato, potahto.” Dean says flippantly, trying to shake off the creeping sensation that he’s missing something important here, “Look, next time, try email. I got your parcel, but I’ve been kinda busy cleaning up various messes, so I’ve not had the chance to open it yet. I promise I’ll open your ever-so-thoughtful present first thing tomorrow. I’m sure it’s that video games console that I’ve always wanted, or something equally as thoughtful.”

“And again,” Castiel mutters darkly, seemingly more to himself than to Dean. “So disrespectful. Anybody else who shows me the same level as disrespect as you --"

"--winds up with a horse's head in their bed?" Dean quips, not quite goading, but definitely trying to provoke some kind of reaction.

Perhaps not the one he actually elicits though.

"See,” Castiel pulls the semi-automatic from his waistband, “This is what I'm talking about,” he gestures carelessly with the gun and Dean flinches, “I should shoot you right here, right now. And yet --” He brings the gun up to Dean’s forehead, not quite metal touching skin this time, but close enough that Dean can sense the presence of it. 

He hears the slide pulled back, bullet loaded, and his heart rate kicks into high gear, panic spiking, making it abruptly difficult to get enough air into his lungs.

Fuck fuck fuck, shit fuck. 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. 

Years ago, he remembers hearing about the difference between how the sexes commit suicide. Men often shoot themselves, making a big mess. Women slit their wrists in the bath, to save on cleaning up. It’s a stupid fucking thought to fixate on, but he must be a woman then or some shit, because all he can think about is how this is gonna make a big ole fuckin’ mess, and whoever finds him will need to soak the bedspread in an enzyme cleaner to get rid of his brain matter, and they’ll have to paper over the blood on the walls, rip up the carpets - he’s never been partial to this lame ‘heather’ gray anyways and --

Ben. 

What if it’s Ben who finds him? 

No, no. Ben’s with his mom until Sunday. It’ll be Bobby who finds him when he doesn’t turn up for work tomorrow. Maybe Sam, possibly Charlie. Fuck.

Maybe he should feel guilty about being relieved that it’ll most likely be his surrogate father or his brother who finds his body, but it looks like there are lots of things Dean’ll have to pay penance for in the afterlife, so he’s not going to waste the last few precious seconds on this earth punishing himself. Not when Castiel clearly enjoys it so much and is doing such a damn good job. 

There’s nothing but silence for what feels like ten minutes, but in reality is probably only ten seconds, before Castiel shatters it with a low and calm, “What do you want, Dean?”

It takes a couple of erratic heartbeats for the question to permeate Dean’s panic and begin to make sense.

Although the answer is pretty obviously,  _ ‘not to die, you fucking asshole’ _ , Dean can only squeeze out a weak sounding, “I don’t know.” 

“Yes, you do.” Castiel insists, voice softer than moments ago and it shakes something loose inside of Dean.

He wishes he could be one of those people who comes up with some perfectly witty last words, some variation of Churchill’s nonchalant “ _ I’m bored with it all _ ”, or Gacy’s dickish “ _ Kiss my as _ s,” but Dean has his own unique brand of gallows humor, so with his heart still thudding rapid-fire, he goes for, “I want to get dressed, that’s what I fucking want.”

He hears Castiel make an impatient sound, “I have a gun to your head. Humor me.”

Forcing his eyes open, staring down the barrel of a gun wielded by the most frustrating, terrifying, attractive bastard he’s ever met, thinking about his son, his brother, and everything he’s ever wanted for them, wanted to _ be _ for them, Dean blurts, completely honestly, “I just want to be a good person.” 

Castiel considers him for a moment, dark eyes lingering on Dean’s mouth for a split second too long and Dean’s pulse quickens again, heating his blood. “No," He uncocks the gun, thumbs on the safety. “You are so much more interesting than that.”

  
  


***

The next morning, the stupid fucking package is still there in the hallway. 

Dean has his morning coffee, forces down a bagel that looks like it’s on the turn, reads his actual mail that isn’t from psychopaths (well, there’s one from the mortgage provider, so that’s neither here nor there) and gets ready for work before he dares to check its contents. 

One end of the padded mailer is vacuum-sealed and the other is sealed with ruler-precise duct tape. Dean rips horizontally just below the neat line of tape. Some of the padding comes out, spills onto the floor, but Dean’s only paying attention to what’s inside. 

It’s his goddamn wallet. 

He hadn’t even noticed that it was missing, that’s how manic the last 36 hours have been. Just as well he hadn’t been stopped by the cops on his and Sam’s still semi-drunk drive over to Sam’s place yesterday morning.

Yeah, ‘cause that would have been his biggest concern. Not having his driving license.

Huh. He must have left it in the truck or something? 

Good of Castiel to get it back to him, Dean supposes. Though he’s not feeling exceptionally generous after being held at gunpoint in his own home, but hey, at least he doesn’t have to queue up at the DMV. 

He upends the package and his wallet slaps into his palm. He flips it open, checks the contents. Twenty dollars, check. Driver license, check. Photo of Ben, check. Debit and credit cards, check.

_ Hmm. _

It occurs to him then that this is most likely the reason why Castiel was calling the other night, and why he took it so damn personally that Dean was ignoring him. He was just trying to be a good guy and give Dean back his wallet and Dean acted like a douche.

Shit. Now Dean’s the asshole. Again.

Of course, last night was a total overreaction by most people’s sane-o-meter, but still. Dean gets it. He _ is  _ a disrespectful asshole at the best of times, and Cas pushes his buttons, so he pushes right on back. 

There’s no way that this doesn’t end badly. 

And yet. 

A piece of off-white paper falls out of the envelope after his wallet. Dean’s flails to catch it, misses, and it flutters to the hardwood floor. He stoops to retrieve it. He turns it over to find damn near illegible scrawl on one side - the same handwriting from the instructions he’d received the other night. 

Dean frowns down at the piece of paper, wondering what the hell it could be alluding to. There’s no name or signatory, just one word which simply says:

_ Both.  _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's about to get real, yo!
> 
> Also, all of you got the ‘both’ reference straight away and I literally clapped my hands in joy every time one of you awesome people commented about it. Yasssss!
> 
> Thank you all for your excellent comments and sexy sexy words. I mega love you all.
> 
> Also, no offence to any drama teachers reading: the opinions expressed by Dean Winchester in this fic are not those of the author!

It’s been a week since Dean last heard from Castiel. One whole week and Dean still hasn’t figured out just how he feels about that. On the one hand, the odds of him getting a gun in his face have significantly reduced, but unfortunately, so have the chances of him getting fucked by a hottie whose stability is surely on a par with nitroglycerin, but fuck, if that ain’t half the fun in the first place.

So maybe Dean’s feeling a little sorry for himself. He’s earned it. 

He still has the counterfeit cash, now moved from the garage and stored in several shoe boxes in the back of his bedroom closet, but he told Charlie, Bobby, Jess, and Sam that he burned it. He figures - what difference does it make? If Cas ever calls him again, then he’ll be able to give it back as a peace offering and then they’ll--

_ What? Fall into bed together?  _

Dean sighs and shifts in his uncomfortable plastic seat. Next to him, Sam elbows him in the ribs. Out of the corner of his mouth, he whispers harshly, “You got ants in your pants? Sit still.”

Ever the witty raconteur, Dean responds with a hushed, “Your -- face has got ants.”

_ Painting pictures with words. _

Sam shoots him a long-suffering glare under the cover of near darkness. Dean can’t quite see it, but he knows it’s there.

On the makeshift stage, a kid dressed as what Dean thinks is supposed to be a cheetah rather than a Spice Girl, trips over Long John Silver’s wooden pegleg; Mr Silver having grown tired of holding his fully-functioning leg up for the full forty-five minutes that this utter hell has been going on for. 

Since Ben started middle school, this is something that Dean doesn’t miss at all. Unfortunately, his niece is still in grade school and is now well enough to actually participate, which is both wonderful and awful in the same breath because now Dean is being forced to sit through a Shit Elementary School Play. 

Yeahhh, those claptrap, ramshackle productions written and directed by overly enthusiastic ‘drama’ teachers wearing too many damn beads and bangles, where your kid is a fucking shrub in the story of thanksgiving or the ass-end of a horse in Cinderella (yes, really). 

In fairness to Madison, she really is putting her all into her performance of a coconut in Treasure Island, but there’s only so much nuance required from a descendant of the palm tree.

Jess has done a wonderful job of her costume though. Dean had said as much when they’d all met up outside the gymnasium-cum-grand-theater-stage, but with a finger in his face, he’d been told  _ not to start, Winchester.  _

Dean shifts again, ready to sell his soul for an intermission, a fire drill, a heart attack, anything that’ll get him the fuck out of this claustrophobic gymnasium right now. 

_ ‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I'll be the hero--’ _

Oh thank you, kind and gracious Satan.

Jess leans around Sam to glare at Dean along with most of the other parents on the row. Dean chalks it up to jealousy that they haven’t got an excuse to make a swift exit, but he plasters on his apologetic ‘what are you gonna do?’ expression, and makes it out of the row with a minimum amount of crushed toes beneath his work boots and rushes towards the exit and sweet sweet freedom.

Once on the other side of the surprisingly heavy gym doors, he sucks in lungful after lungful of fresh air, like he’s been trapped for the best part of an hour with the alcoholic fumes of the WASPs and their sugar daddies.

_ Oh wait. _

And then, all the breath leaves him in a rushed exhale. 

In the near-empty hallway, over by the orange juice table (45 cents a cup, cheeky fuckers) is Castiel. Today, he’s back to all black, but his collared shirt is short-sleeved and Dean is beginning to wonder if Satan threw in a little sweetener with their soul-for-escape exchange, because Castiel’s forearms are broad AF and covered in tattoos. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hi Cas.” Dean responds pleasantly, then simply can’t resist snarking, because Dean is a lot of things, but a fan of self-preservation is not one of them, “Not planning on shooting me today, I hope.”

A corner of Castiel’s mouth turns up in a wry smile. “The conversation is still young.”

Dean manages to crack a small smile too and something passes between them; more than just the private joke shared (at the expense of Dean’s mortality, it should  _ definitely  _ be noted), but something deeper that feels important in a way that Dean can’t quite place.

Either way, it’s a shaky truce and Dean’s grateful for it. 

Dean watches silently as Castiel tucks a dollar into the honesty box and then pours out two plastic cupfuls of orange juice. He sips from one as he holds the other out in Dean’s direction.

Dean goes over to Castiel and takes the cup with a murmured thanks and a quick brush of skin against skin that Dean  _ definitely  _ doesn’t read too much into. 

_Jesus._ _Get it together, Winchester._

Dean starts, “Look, I’m sorry for--” at the same time as Cas asks, “Enjoying the production?” and Dean’s duty-bound to answer that with complete honesty. 

“Fuck no,” He replies on a skittery breath.

Castiel’s head-thrown-back, uninhibited laugh is going to feature in Dean’s masturbatory fantasies for at  _ least _ the next decade. Fuck, but the man is beautiful. 

Dean grins, secretly pleased at such a reaction from the usually pretty stoic gangster. He adds, half-toasting Castiel with his cup, “So thanks for aiding my escape, man. ‘Preciate it.”

Still smiling faintly, Castiel waves a dismissive hand and Dean catches sight of black tendrils on his left arm, all Lovecraft-esque - that twine all the way up from his wrist and continue under the capped sleeve of his shirt. Dean wants to see just how far they go, wants to trace the black ink with his tongue. “I understand how painful elementary school plays can be.”

Dean desperately needs to ask  _ how, why, what, _ but he’s enjoying this quiet camaraderie, doesn’t want to lose it by asking about something he’s not entitled to know. 

Instead he plays it safe, hoping to add to this goodwill pot they have going on, “Thanks for the wallet back too, by the way.”

Castiel hums in acknowledgment, drains his orange juice, licks his lips - another one for the spank bank - and stacks the cup in the dirty pile, “There wasn’t anything worth stealing.”

Dean blurts out a laugh, not sure if it was a joke or not. Castiel’s default expression is giving nothing away. As usual. 

He takes a sip of his own orange juice, just for something to do, because he’s still standing here with a full cup of rapidly warming juice that he hates at the best of times, but most of all when it’s room temperature.

Somebody walks past them in the hallway, a blur in Dean’s periphery, as his focus is entirely on the man in front of him, bodies turned all the way to face each other now. To an outsider, they’d look like a pair of (abnormally attractive) dads discussing their favorite fishing spots, but anyone listening would be swiftly disabused of that notion when Castiel casually says, “The cops ran your brother’s DNA through AFIS.”

Thankfully they’re alone again. 

“Yeah,” Dean says around a swallow. “Jess -- Sam’s wife is a cop. She’s been keeping us up-to-date with all the developments.”

Since  _ Samplegate _ , things have vastly improved. Jess refused to steal the sample, but Sam’s back in the marital bed after a balls-to-the-wall argument, which according to Sam, culminated with Jess screaming that she didn’t even recognize the man she had married anymore. Until Sam pointed out that he was exactly the man she’d married. Their daughter was sick and he got her better. He has always been the person to do anything for his family and that’s what he did the night he robbed the convenience store. 

By all accounts, there was a very happy ending for all concerned that night.

Except for Dean, of course. Dean still gets the stink eye at every opportunity. 

“Not all,” Castiel says lowly, “Jessica’s colleagues are holding back one vital detail; they’re concerned she might be biased and therefore liable to give her husband a head’s up.”

Dean stops mid-swallow, crisp(ish) orange juice turning lukewarm in his mouth. He works his throat to swallow the rest down, “What?” He manages, “What vital detail?”

“Sam has a record. The prints found in the safe are a match."

  
  


***

Dean is  _ pissed _ . 

Why has everybody he cares about been lying to him recently? First Benny, now Sam. Why is the only person who is being truly honest with him a freakin’ criminal, and perhaps more importantly… “Why the fuck do I have to hear from the goddamned  _ gangster _ that you have a record, Sam?”

Sam blanches, caught out, and that’s all the confirmation that Dean needs.

He kicks out at a nearby innocent chair, furious and terrified, “You stupid son of a bitch!”

Sam looks so young sitting there on the edge of Dean’s couch, hands in his lap, watching Dean with wide, guilty eyes, “Why do you think I was so worried?”

It’s a good point and one that Dean had considered at length during the excruciatingly tense ride home. After the little-play-that-could ended, Jess and Madison had gone to get celebratory ice cream, excitedly chattering as they emerged from the gym into the hallway. Dean had stayed by the orange juice table long after Cas left, pacing, freaking out, and chewing his fingernails down to the quick. As soon as he’d seen Sam’s sasquatch head towering above the rest of the emerging crowd, he’d grabbed him round the bicep and dragged him to his car. 

Sam hadn’t shut up for the whole journey, wanting explanations, apologies,  _ something _ , but Dean had just tightened his grip on the steering wheel and tried to focus on not reaching across the console and punching his stupid brother in his stupid face. 

“Because you worry about everything Sam! You worry about being late for work when you’ve left an hour early! You worry about hurricanes even though we’re about as far inland as it fucking gets! You worry about my immortal fucking soul, even though it’s long since been established that Heaven isn’t really my speed!”

Sam’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly, and it’s right around then that Dean realizes he needs to dial this down a notch or something’s gonna end up broken - whether it’s gonna be the fine bones in Dean’s fist, a piece of furniture, or Sam’s spirit.

Dean sucks in a lungful of air, exhales and tries again. “Okay, I’m calm.” He takes a seat on the abused chair and runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Jesus H. Christ, Sam. Well, what’s it for?”

Sam flinches as though he’s been slapped, and Dean instantaneously _ gets  _ Cas’  _ ‘you have no idea how tempted I am to make that a reality for you,’ _ line. “Does it matter?”

Dean shifts forward, elbows and forearms on his knees, trying to make himself look at least a little less like he’s about to kick his brother’s ass. “No, but at this point if it’s for anything less than murder one, I’m going to go ahead and assume you’re an asshole for not telling me.”

Sam sighs dramatically, flings himself onto the sofa proper, pushes his head back into the couch cushions, and looks up to the ceiling like it’ll save him from his furious older brother. Spoiler alert: it fucking won’t. “It’s for weed possession.”

This just gets better and better.

“Oh for-- are you telling me that we’re all gonna go to jail because you lit up a blunt at college or some shit?”

Sam still won’t look at Dean, “Pretty much.”

Dean wants to laugh, but can’t find the energy. “Un-fucking-believable.” He sits up, digging into his front pocket for his phone. He unlocks it and begins scrolling through his contacts until he finds the one he wants.

Sam’s eyes find Dean’s without moving his head, “What are you doing?”

“Getting us out of this.” He taps on the name and waits for the line to start ringing.

“What, how?”

“Just you mind your business, Snoop.”

The line clicks as the phone is answered. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hi Cas. We need your help.”

  
  


***

  
  


Standing outside a supposedly abandoned warehouse in the dodgy district at the opposite end of the city from Dean’s suburban haven at four-thirty in the morning is not Dean’s preferred method for ending his brief fling with organized crime, but then he didn’t figure Sam and his uncanny ability for fucking up Dean’s plans into his calculations.

Kid’s supposed to be the smart one out of the two of them. Dean’s not really sure what that says about him, but perhaps it’s confirmed by his willingness to jump back into this shit without considering consequences other than getting Sammy, Charlie and himself out of immediate trouble.

Which is exactly got them into trouble in the first place. 

The irony is not lost on Dean. 

This place is comically shady. Like if this was a gangster movie, this is the first place cops would get a warrant to search for drugs or guns or counterfeit money.

Which is as concerning as it is reassuring, because it either means that this place is next on the FBI hit list or Castiel has been greasing so many palms that it’s a wonder any government official in this city is capable of opening doors properly, their hands are that slippery. 

Knowing Cas, it’s most likely to be the latter.

There’s a small red door to the right of the main loading area, paint chipping and rusting at the hinges, so Dean figures it’s time to put on his big boy pants and deal with this shit. 

The handle creaks as he pushes it down, but there’s no resistance in the door (not like Dean had been expecting), so he stumbles into the warehouse a lot less gracefully than he had been going for, and he’s immediately confronted with a semi-automatic gun in his face.

Again.

It's getting kinda tiresome (but no less terrifying) at this point.

Fuck. Maybe he should have called Cas from outside or something.

Dude at the other end of the gun is just observing Dean, not saying anything, waiting patiently. He’s kinda pretty; black hair, blue eyes, tall. Is being cute a prerequisite for gangster-dom? If so, Dean’s a shoe-in. 

_ Not helpful. _

He clears his throat, tries not to let his fear creep in around the edges, “Err, hi there. I’m Dean. Here for Cas-tiel?”

“I know who you are.”

O--kay. 

“Can you take me to him?”

“I  _ can _ .”

A grammar nazi. Who knew gangsters were so highly educated and so willing to lord it over you?

“ _ Will  _ you take me to him?”

“No.”

Oh. 

Having reached the end of his conversational limit, Dean’s about to throw his hands up in defeat when a familiar face puts in an appearance, rounding the corner and scowling at the pretty gun toter. 

“Michael, stop being an ass.” 

Michael - the dude wielding a gun in Dean’s face - uncocks the pistol and lowers it. He doesn’t look entirely happy about it, but there’s seemingly a hierarchy here and Dean’s just glad he’s apparently got upper-management on his side. 

Dean’s savior - the grinning dude from the Kwik Bargainz parking lot the other week - slinks an arm around Dean’s waist and propels him swiftly forwards around a concrete pillar, through another - more secure - door and into the guts of this operation.

And fuck, what an operation it is.

The warehouse is easily the size of an aircraft hanger, all one floor, concrete, with windows and skylights high up in the composite roof. The entire place is bustling with activity, rows of machinery whirring, bodies everywhere moving in tandem, stacks of money piled higher than Dean’s six foot one, and then some. 

“It’s cool ain’t it?” Grinning guy says with a glance at Dean’s expression as he expertly weaves them through the maze of bills and old-school money presses. 

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, distracted. There’s a tower of ten or so microwaves stacked on top of one another. He watches as a worker shoves in a heap of money, slams the door, sets the timer for a minute-thirty. “Microwaving the money?”

“Dries it.” Grinning dude answers. “Not all of the money is counterfeit. Some of it is from bank jobs.” He gestures to a row of industrial sink units against the south wall. “We literally wash it. We have to dunk it in water to set off any dye packs. Serves the dual purpose of discovering the dye pack itself and then diluting the dye so that the money’s still usable. We then have to dry the bills --” They both step over a worker kneeling on the floor, jeweler’s loupe pressed to one eye, “-- and the quickest way to do that is in the microwave.”

Overwhelmed and reluctantly impressed, Dean nods mutely. 

Yeahhh, this is way above his pay grade. He’s almost longing for empty trucks and grocery store security. 

“Mind-blowing, right?” Grinning guy shouts over the noise of a particularly loud piece of machinery.

Dean nods again. 

“It’s cool, you’ll get used to it. Here we are.”

_ Used to it? _

Grinning guy leans across Dean, unnecessarily placing his hand on Dean’s bicep under the pretense of keeping his balance, but the firm squeeze and obvious ogle of Dean’s chest make it clear that that’s not what is going on here.

The office door swings open inwards and the grinning dude ushers Dean inside, with a firm hand on his ass, and Dean’s not sure if gangs have policies about sexual harassment in the workplace, ‘cause Dean’s definitely got grounds for a complaint.

Castiel is seated behind a desk in the corner of the small space. There’s no window, but the aircon is on, evident in the coolness of the office at Dean’s front compared to the heat of the factory floor at his back.

His desk is kinda sparse, but neatly arranged; fancy glass paperweights securing loose sheafs, and a cup of what smells like coffee next to a photo frame, the subject of which Dean can’t see from here. There’s a small bookcase to the left of the desk, spines tidily displayed in alphabetical order. 

Castiel finally looks up from his laptop when grinning guy clears his throat. “Dean’s here to see you, Castiel.”

“Yes, thank you Gabriel. Could you please go and check with Raphael to make sure that the pickup is ready for tonight.”

Gabriel mock-salutes, two fingers to his temple, before his palm comes down with force against Dean’s backside, “Sure thing boss, good to meet you properly, Dean-o!”

Castiel’s lips twitch against a smile.

The door closes behind Dean with a soft click, muting the noise of the factory.

“He’s a card, ain’t he?” Dean says just to fill the ensuing silence as Castiel turns his attention back to the laptop. 

“Gabriel’s very loyal.” Castiel replies, hitting a couple of keys on the computer, before he closes the lid and focuses his full attention on Dean. Today he looks the full hipster-businessman-cum-Russian-mafia-Avtoritet; long-sleeved dark shirt, red tie, suit jacket on the back of his office chair. 

As always, he wears it well.

And as always, Dean’s annoyed by his own reaction to Castiel’s proximity. That, combined with Gabriel’s wandering hands, Michael’s gunplay, and the all-round situation has a large portion of his good humor evaporating. He sighs, shifting his weight. “Why exactly am I here, Cas? Why are we discussing this here instead of you popping up in my house, like a malevolent Patrick Swayze, or stalking me the good-old-fashioned way?”

Castiel hums thoughtfully. “As fun as all that is, I thought it prudent to bring you here to see the operation, so you can understand exactly what you’re about to get into.”

This vague shit just isn’t doing it for him today. Dean’s gonna need everything spelled out for him nice and slowly, “Why?” He asks, “I mean, why do you care about informed consent all of a sudden?”

Castiel tilts his head, scrutinizing Dean, looking far too dangerous to be sitting in an office with aircon and an alphabetically arranged bookcase. The weight of his gaze is just this side of too heavy on Dean, damn near physical and it forces the air from Dean’s lungs in short, choppy breaths. “Because if we’re going to do this, I need to know that you can be trusted.”

“And if I can’t?” Dean chances, already knowing that he’s not going to like the answer.

“Then I shoot you.” He doesn’t need to add the  _ ‘for realsies this time’. _

Yep, not a big fan of that answer.

“Quite the motivator.” Dean jokes faintly.

With a slanted smile, Castiel says, “I’ve found it to be pretty effective.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Dean manages,  _ pull it to-fucking-gether, Winchester, _ “Uh, So you brought me here to show me what you do, what your operation is capable of, right? To show me what’s at stake?”

“Yes. I’m hoping that the arrangement we’re about to discuss will be a long-term friendship for us both. Please, take a seat.” He gestures to a comfy looking chair on the opposite side of the desk. 

Dean does as he’s told. Seems pointless to rebel at this point, though the temptation is there as always. 

Castiel continues before Dean has a chance to open his mouth. “You need the issue with your brother’s DNA to go away, correct?”

“Yeah.” Dean confirms, “Somehow.”

“I can do that. But in exchange, you’ll be laundering money for my organization.”

Dean’s jaw doesn’t quite drop, but it’s a near thing. He’d expected some sort of  _ quid-pro-quo, Clarice _ , but he didn’t think they’d be going down this route again. “What? But why? I washed like fifteen hundred dollars last time, there’s no way I can scale that up.”

“That was just a test; I wanted to see your willingness.”

Well, fuck.

Another test. Just call Cas the SAT’s. 

Dean certainly wouldn’t mind doing him for three hours and forty-five minutes.

Castiel continues, “I don’t need you to wash counterfeit cash; there’s no point in that. Our stuff is clean enough and detailed enough that it gets into the pipeline with little to no issues.”

“Well, then--” Dean starts, stops himself at the look Castiel sends his way. See? He’s learning. “Err, carry on.”

“Thanks.” Castiel responds drily. “I need you to launder our illicitly-gotten money; the cash from the robberies, drugs, guns etcetera.”

“Jesus.”

Castiel plows on, ignoring Dean. “Have you ever watched Breaking Bad?”

_ What. _

“What?”

“We can’t put this money straight in the bank, it needs to be cleaned up. The best way to do that is through respectable businesses. Especially businesses that deal in services rather than goods, though it doesn’t always work out that way.” At Dean’s undoubtedly blank look, Castiel explains, “Goods are traceable; services are not. You can easily bullshit the taxman about how many cars you service, how many covers you do in a restaurant...”

And then Dean realizes. Well, fuck.

“You need legit businesses like mine to pay cash into, someone to fudge the numbers, then squirrel the cash away in a proper bank account. Jesus.” Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, practically vibrating with nervous energy, and then the first realization is eclipsed by a second, more concerning one, “...Wait a minute. Did you say restaurant?”

Castiel glances away, stares at the blank wall of his office like he’s trying to confer with the paint. “Yes. Unfortunately we need your...  _ husband’s _ restaurant too. Our trade is taking off and I have to have trustworthy people with provable business models on board. We did have a fairly reliable method of laundering via the Kwik Bargainz, but the manager is a little skittish after the robbery.” 

Christ. 

“I have nothing to do with the restaurant.” Dean says in lieu of something like ‘ _ Fuck no! Are you insane?’ _

Castiel’s eyes are back on him then, fire behind the usual ice. “You’re going to have to do whatever it takes to get yourself involved.”

Fucking Sam.

“And if I say no?”

“I’m pretty sure that stopped being an option the moment you walked through the door.”

He’s not wrong. Goddammit. 

Dean’s not sure how he’s gonna be able to swing this. Things between him and Benny are… not improved since he walked in on him, Cas, Sam, and Charlie in the kitchen. They’ve yet to sort out the divorce stuff, but that’s mostly because Dean’s been preoccupied. It’s certainly not due to any indecision on his part. Maybe that could be his in? Ask him for help under the pretense of divorce papers?

Nah. 

Maybe promise to postpone the divorce so that Benny will be more inclined to help?

Nah, that feels too cruel. And despite what Benny did to him, Dean’s determined not to turn this into a ‘Who can be the biggest asshole’ contest. 

‘Cause Dean would undoubtedly win.

He could always just be honest with Benny? Though he's not sure his gag reflex will let him swallow that much pride.

He’s gonna have to give this some serious thought. He’ll have to figure out how much or how little to tell Benny and-- _ fuck _ . Seriously, just when he thought he was out? 

He leans forward in his seat, folds his arms on the desk, resigned to his fate, “How much are we talking here?”

“We’ll start off small, then increase it slowly. For the first couple of months, fifty thousand a month.”

At first Dean’s not sure whether his knee-jerk reaction of _ “fuck off!”  _ is said out loud, but judging by the humourous curve of Castiel’s mouth, Dean accidentally vocalized his surprise. 

If he’s even considering this - which he is, of course he is, he’s not letting them all go down for armed robbery - then he’s going to have to start engaging properly. “What do I get in exchange? I ain’t doing this shit for free.”

“You get your freedom.” Castiel replies reasonably. The ‘ _ And I don’t kneecap you for pissing away our relationship with the previous launderers’  _ goes unsaid. 

No wonder Cas has been such a goddamn sourpuss. Dean, Sam, and Charlie not only stole his money, but also fucked up a pretty lucrative element of his business model. 

Still. Dean’s not about to indebt himself to Cas and his operation without at least getting  _ something _ out of it. Madison’s meds, Charlie’s wedding, Dean’s mortgage, it’s all expensive shit. 

“Yeahuh.” Dean says, leaning back in the chair, “See, I think I’m worth a little more to you than vanishing a little DNA sample, Cas. Because why else would you be going to all this trouble?”

“Why indeed.” Castiel mutters wryly. “You do realize that it’s rather more complicated than--” and he honest to God finger quotes “--’vanishing a little DNA sample’, right?”

Dean did not realize that.

It must show on his face, because Castiel releases a long-suffering sigh, “Detective Henrickson - the lead investigator - is convinced that your brother is involved. He’s not going to stop until he proves his theory, sample or not.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Friends in high places.” Castiel offers mysteriously.

Dean magnanimously lets him have that one.

“So what are you gonna do?”

Castiel shoots him a pointed look, “I’m going to use harsh language.” And Dean has a split second to be impressed with Castiel’s pop-culture knowledge, before he’s adding with a (un)surprising amount of snark, “What do you think I’m going to do Dean? I will make sure you, your brother and your friend don’t go to jail.”

Mmm-mm. No. No more vagueness. “How?”

Castiel just raises his eyebrow. 

“Your sexy eyebrow thing is not an answer, man.”

Something flits across his expression, reminiscent of that time in the kitchen after Charlie ‘let slip’ about Dean’s crush, before the shutters come down again, “It’s none of your concern, just rest assured that the problem will be solved.” He starts needlessly gathering papers, apparently done with this conversation and therefore Dean.

Dean reaches out across the desk and stills Castiel’s forearm. Warmth bleeds through his shirt and Dean’s palm, and Dean absolutely, resolutely doesn’t think about tattoos, “Don’t kill him.”

Castiel stops with the papers, but doesn’t attempt to dislodge Dean’s grip. He sighs, put upon. “It’s the most efficient way.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Dean says, reluctantly taking back his hand. “You’re not killing an innocent man, no matter how much of a pain in the ass he is.” At this point whether he’s talking about himself or Henrickson is up for debate, but Dean’s not sure he can really be described as innocent anymore.

There’s a tic in Castiel’s jaw. “This is not up for debate.”

“You’re damn right!” Dean shouts, because he read on a plaque in a Home Depot somewhere that if you don’t stand for something, you’ll die for nothing. “No killing innocent people; I’d rather go to jail.”

“Well, that would be incredibly inconvenient.”

“Yeah, for you and me both, but there’s no way that you are killing that man. So figure out another way to get us free of this!”

Castiel's eyes are narrowed, and he looks as though he’s on the verge of shooting Dean instead, and just being done with the whole sorry mess. 

Dean’s not even entirely sure that he’d blame him. 

“ _ Infuriating _ ,” Castiel eventually mutters, “Fine. I’ll try to come up with something else.”

“Good.” Dean relaxes minutely, exhales slowly. Now that’s settled-- “So, I was thinking a fifty-fifty split for the laundering.” 

Castiel’s smile is beatific, and not for the first time (in the last twenty minutes), Dean’s struck by how ridiculously handsome he is. “That’s good. Tell me another.”

Asshole.

“I’m assuming all the risk.”

“Ten percent.” Castiel offers.

Nope. “Twenty-five.”

“Twelve percent.”

What kind of haggling is this? It’s like a particularly dodgy episode of Pawn Stars.

“Twenty.” Dean tries, which surely must be reasonable.

Apparently not. “Thirteen.”

“Fifteen.”

“Deal.” They both rise on opposite sides of the desk to shake hands. Castiel’s nimble fingers curl around Dean’s hand, Dean’s clammy palm to Castiel’s smooth warm one. Dean would be content to stay like this for a while, sweaty palms and all, but Castiel has other ideas and yanks his hand away like he’s been burned.

It would be insulting if Dean wasn’t acutely aware of the moist palm situation.

Castiel retakes his seat, opens his laptop, and that’s it, Dean’s dismissed. “I’ll call you when I have the first deposit ready.”

“O-okay.” He wipes his sweaty hand on his jeans - which he really should have done before shaking Cas’s hand - and turns to face the exit, walking towards the door on shaky legs. 

“Dean?”

Hand on the doorknob, he turns back to Cas. “Yeah?”

“I usually pay thirty.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys!!! Thank you for your awesome comments again; I'm getting the strong impression that you're all in agreement with Dean about Cas being an asshole?!? Haha!
> 
> I've finally figured out where I'm taking this story, so pretty much everything is plotted out, with half of it written. I've updated the chapter count to reflect this. This is the final super plotty chapter before the porn train leaves the station, so all aboard, I guess?!
> 
> Just a warning: the first chunk of this chapter is a conversation between Dean and Benny, along with a fair bit of introspection(!) from Dean, so there are mentions of Dean and Benny’s past relationship. Nothing graphic, but just so you know.

Benny’s Bistro has always been one of Dean’s favorite places to eat. The menu is pure gluttony; specials include braised pork belly, bacon-wrapped shrimp and grits, filet mignon with truffle butter, stuffed grilled cheese biscuits with sausage and boudin, and good old fashioned chicken and sausage gumbo. 

And every single dish is amazing. Like-so-good-you-want-to-marry-the-chef amazing.

‘Cause that worked out so well. 

Since Dean found out about his husband’s infidelity, he’s refused to step foot in the place on principle. The principle being the sheer awkwardness of knowing that he and most of the staff share Benny’s dick in common. 

But now, he has to suck it up (pun not intended, ugh) and show his face at the restaurant. And he’s doing it in a one-two punch of coming off the back of his meeting with Castiel. 

He decided on his way over here, that he’s just gonna play it straight (ha!) with Benny. No bullshit about dates or divorce papers, just an honest conversation asking for help. If he’s learned nothing else over the past few weeks, it’s that lies always come back to bite you in the ass, and it’s always Dean’s ass that they’re biting.

Close, but not quite one of his kinks.

Of course, it involves swallowing his pride, something Dean’s never been very good at (his swallowing talents lie in other departments,  _ wink wink, nudge nudge _ ), but if he’s gotta do this to save all of their asses (literally and figuratively, ‘cause he’s heard women’s prisons can be big on the sexual assault too), then he will. 

Doesn’t means he’s happy about it though, and that fucking sasquatch better buy him an amazing Christmas present.

With all this in mind, Dean braces himself and pulls on one of the long, vertical brass door handles, and as the door opens outwards, he’s immediately hit with the mouth-watering aromas of Benny’s cooking.

For all the man’s faults, he certainly knows his way around a kitchen.

Inside, the place is pretty sophisticated; bare brick walls, naked bulbs hanging from an exposed ceiling, some cozy booths around the edge, wooden tables and chairs in the middle and near the long curve of the corner bar. It’s comfy and welcoming, and it would be so easy for Dean to allow himself to slip back a couple of months to when life was simpler and familiar. 

He’s greeted by a server he doesn’t recognize; a slender dude with blond hair, brown eyes, and a quirky mouth. He introduces himself as Chris and he seats Dean in his section with a flirty wink and a promise to be right back. 

Dean doesn’t need to look at the menu; he knows exactly what he wants. Sometimes Benny would come home and ask Dean’s advice on what his best dishes were, which ingredients to use to give a certain dish the perfect oomph, which ones he should rotate in and out. Dean knows jack-shit about cooking, but he knows food. There were blind taste tests and food fights, and Dean definitely helped in his own small way to make Benny’s Bistro the success it is today. 

That this place is nothing to do with him now makes him feel just a tiny bit wistful for what used to be. For what he and Benny used to be.

It’s not like their relationship was a  _ complete  _ shitshow towards the end, but Dean would be lying if he didn’t say that things were just kinda  _ meh _ . Like they were going through the motions of being in a marriage. Dean was always working long hours at the garage, Benny the same at the restaurant, and the only time they made for each other revolved around Ben. It wasn’t because they hated each other or anything as easily obvious as that, it was just a kind of complacence that Dean told himself probably plagues a lot of marriages, but whenever he glanced sideways at Sam and Jess, he knew in his heart of hearts wasn’t true. 

He’s always been mildly jealous of Sam and Jess’ relationship; their easy camaraderie, playful banter, and earth-scorching, mountain-conquering love. Jess’ forgiveness of Sam for his dumbassery is certainly proof of that last one. Their busy lives - both before, during, and after Maddy’s illness - has never been an excuse for them not to spend time together, which when contrasted with Dean and Benny’s passing ships in the night model, left Dean feeling like something was missing, long before Benny stuck his dick in his sous chef. 

But Benny  _ was _ good for Dean in the beginning; he anchored Dean just as he was starting to get antsy with his white-picket-fence life. They met at a time where Dean loved his kid, his home, his business, but was already feeling overwhelmed with the normalcy of it all. The endless PTA meetings, the bunting-filled middle-class block parties, the chats to neighbors over the fence about how their rose bush was coming along. It was suffocating and as someone who had spent their entire childhood on the road, sleeping in truck stops and sleazy motels, Dean hadn’t been coping all that well when he met Benny. 

Benny made Dean appreciate his great life in the beginning, but maybe by the end, he made him resent it. Just a bit. 

And maybe it was that resentment that drove Benny to cheat. It’s certainly something Dean had to consider after he found out. He gets it - nobody really cheats unless they want to, so ultimately, it’s Benny’s fault, but Dean might have inadvertently given him a push. 

The money thing though? Yeah, that was all Benny.

Dean rests his head back against the soft leather of the booth and sighs. How has he managed to fuck up his life so thoroughly? 

_ With great dedication. _

Not that any of it matters now. Continuing the Dean Winchester tradition of fucking up his life, he’s a part-time money launderer as of this afternoon and if that doesn’t inject some goshdarn excitement into Dean’s vanilla life, then nothing will. 

Chris returns to take his order, eyebrow raising at Dean’s choice of drink at ten in the morning, but writes it down on the pad any way without comment. Before he has a chance to disappear again, Dean bites the bullet, asks, “Err, is Benny--” He clears his throat and tries again, “Is Benny around today?”

It seems as though all of his courage was used up in his dealings with Castiel and now he feels hollowed out, emotionally exhausted and he’s not sure that he’ll ever be ready to have the conversation he’s about to have. 

Surprise flits across Chris’ cute features, but he recovers quickly. Dean loosely wonders if his husband has fucked him yet. “Yeah. Yeah, Benny’s in today. You a friend or something?”

“Or something,” Dean replies with a wry smile. “Could you just let him know that I’m here? Name’s Dean.”

“Sure thing,” Chris smiles, and the heat behind it has all but vanished.

“Thanks man.”

Chris disappears to the station to program in Dean’s order and then he makes his way over to the kitchen, stealing a quick glance at Dean on the way. 

Another waitress that Dean doesn’t recognize brings him his drink from the bar. She’s infinitely less judgy than Chris.

A few moments later, Benny strides out, smiling broadly at customers seated at the tables he passes on the way to Dean, but Dean can see it’s strained around the edges, awkward and unsure in a way that Benny never really is. It’s a kind of uncanny valley experience; something not quite right about the distinct lack of confidence that was a serious plus in Benny’s favor when they started dating. 

It’s becoming apparent that Dean has a type; blue eyes, confidence, and competence. 

_ Also, assholes. Let’s not forget that. _

Abruptly nervous for more reasons than the one he's here for, Dean takes a pull from his beer, damn near gulping down half of the bottle before Benny reaches his table. 

“Hey,” Benny says, panting a little, sweat beading at his hairline. He doesn’t sit in the booth either next to or opposite from Dean. He also doesn’t comment on Dean’s drink, which he’s thankful for. 

“Hi,” Dean replies, managing a small genuine smile, “I wasn’t expecting you to drop everything to come and talk to me right now. You can finish the service, it’s fine. I’ve ordered anyways.”

Benny lights up at that, “Yeah? What’d you order?” 

And this is easy.  _ This, _ Dean can do. “The stuffed grilled cheese biscuits with sausage and boudin. With the in-house BBQ sauce, of course.”

Benny straight up grins at him then, handsome as ever and Dean feels his heart twist painfully in his chest. “Good choice.”

“Yeah.” Dean says, stares down at the bottle in his hands, “Look, do you wanna sit down, or as I said, we can talk about this later?”

Benny seems to consider his options, weighing up whatever Dean might have to say versus his need to be in the kitchen, but eventually settles on, “It’s fine, they’ve got it covered out there, I can spare a few minutes for you.”

The ‘for you’ is imbued with more meaning than he explicitly says and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Benny slides into the booth, settling in across from Dean. He looks good, really good. Broad forearms and biceps bunching underneath his white henley shirt as he interlaces his fingers together atop the table. 

When Dean finally drags his gaze to Benny’s face, his ex smiles knowingly, and Dean rolls his eyes. Them finding each other attractive was never the problem. 

Which is why his infidelity was such a massive slap to the face.

“So, how can I help you, cher?”

It's a low-blow attempt on what Benny perceives as an easy target, and his response to the look Dean throws his way, suggests that he knows it. He holds his hands up in surrender, “Dean,” He amends, “How can I help you,  _ Dean _ ?”

_ And here. we. go. _

“Okay,” Dean starts, “I, umm--” How is he supposed to just come out and tell Benny all of this? “Okay… so…” He takes another gulp of beer for courage and just blurts it all out, “I did something stupid and now I’m in trouble.” 

Benny raises his eyebrows. “How much trouble?”

Dean nearly chokes on a laugh, picks at the label on the bottle. “A lot, man. A whole lot.”

“Shit,” Benny murmurs, gaze on Dean. “What do you need me to do?”

Fuck, fuck, shit. 

“I, err,”  _ it’s crunch time, Winchester, time to nut up and not disappoint that blue-eyed psychopath with a gun, _ “I need you to let me put some money into the restaurant. And I don’t mean as an investment.”

Benny scrubs a hand over his beard as he sits back in the booth. He sighs, “Does this have anything to do with how the mortgage back-debt was cleared? How Madison’s GoFundMe was suddenly nearly forty grand up overnight?”

Dean nods, not trusting his voice.

“How illegal are we talking here, Dean?”

Dean’s not sure precisely how illegality is categorized beyond the obvious. Is laundering money that has been received due to an armed robbery more or less illegal than money received through drugs? What about if the drugs are prescription ones sold at cost? Or if the guns used during the robbery are fake? Does it matter legally, ‘cause it certainly does morally? Right?

_ Yeah, keep telling yourself that. _

Either way, he figures that laundering money for a gang that probably drops more bodies than Scarface on the daily, is most likely at the upper end of the scale. 

“Super illegal.”

Benny sighs again, “Goddammit,” but he isn’t saying no yet, which can only be a good thing. “How much?” 

“I’m putting around twenty-five grand into the garage. I’m hoping for the same with your restaurant.”

Benny’s silent until Dean adds, “Per month. To start off.”

Benny leans in a little closer, voice hushed and ever-so-slightly panicked, “Are you fucking shitting me, Dean? What sort of crap have you gotten yourself into?” Before Dean can answer, something apparently occurs to Benny, “This is all because of that shady tattooed fucker, isn’t it?”

“No,” Dean hisses. Even though technically  _ yes. _ “This has nothing to do with Cas," 

" _ Cas _ , eh?" Benny mumbles, dark-eyed and jealous. 

And yeah Dean's annoyed, because this is  _ not _ the time for the jealous ex routine, "You have no fucking right, Benny. Stow your crap and help me.”

“If it’s nothing to do with him, get  _ him _ to help then,” Benny says, folding his arms across his broad chest. He eyes Dean knowingly, just a bit too smug for Dean’s liking, and he’s beginning to see the merits of shoving a gun in someone’s face to try to curb their general assholeishness.

Hasn’t worked on Dean so far, but that’s neither here nor there.

Chris places Dean’s plate of food between them on the table. Adds a knife and fork wrapped neatly in a cloth napkin next to it. “Enjoy,” he says with a forced smile and then he’s practically running away. Dean can’t blame him; it’s super freakin’ tense at the table and if Dean had a choice, he wouldn’t want any part of it either. 

“New guy?” he asks, jerking his head in the direction of the rapidly departing Chris, serving the dual purpose of a truce, and also getting Benny the hell away from the subject of Cas. 

“Yeah,” Benny eventually says, still watching Dean closely as he fiddles with the cutlery to avoid looking at his ex, like Benny’s onto him and his bullshit, “I got rid of the old guard, hired a bunch of newbies.”

Dean is pretty sure that he already knows the answer, but he asks anyway, just to hear Benny say it. “Why?” And fuck it, he’s gonna eat. He’s starving, it’s past breakfast time and he’s been up since 2 in the morning, at Cas’ warehouse from four-thirty until 8, and then he’d sat in his car outside for at least an hour or so, questioning his life choices. Like hell he’s gonna sit here with this gorgeous smelling food, rich, thick gravy, and not tuck in out of some sort of socially-enforced politeness.

“Because it was the right thing to do.” Benny murmurs and Dean can feel the weight of his ex’s gaze on his face, not intense in the same way as Cas’, but it makes Dean shift in his seat all the same, “Because I fucked up. Several times. And the very least thing I could do was create an environment where I hadn’t...been intimate with some of the staff.”

It kinda is the very least he could do, but Dean still appreciates the gesture all the same.

“Man,” Dean mutters around a mouthful of sublime food, “That’s pretty risky considering there was a chance I’d never find out.”

“I didn’t do it so that you would find out; you made it pretty clear that you don’t want me back. I just needed to do something right for a change, after years of doing shit wrong.”

It’s emotionally mature and said with such painful vulnerability that it gives Dean pause for a moment, his eyes stinging a little, and his throat suddenly feels like he’s swallowed a baseball. He lowers his knife and fork, resting them on the raised edge of the plate. 

He can’t let this turn into more than what it is, can’t let it be anything other than what it is; a means to an end, keeping himself, Sam, and Charlie out of jail. 

“Benny.” 

But Benny plows on, seizing an opening and going for it. “I love you, Dean. Always have, always will. I know I fucked up, but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. If that has to start with me laundering money, then I’ll fucking do it, darlin’.”

As far as romantic speeches go, it’s not quite up there with Spike’s declaration to Buffy in season seven, but Dean’ll take it. Doubly so now that it means he won’t end up hearing the prison equivalent from some douche in the Aryan brotherhood named Roy.

  
  


***

In the old days, Dean would’ve let Benny fuck him in the Bistro’s cooler. It’s not the old days though, so instead, he tosses his used napkin onto his empty plate and slides out of the booth. He leans down slightly in an aborted move to kiss Benny on the cheek, before he awkwardly holds out his hand to shake instead, and then leaves Benny with a couple of twenties, and a promise to call once he knows exactly what’s going on. 

***

Castiel calls him the very next day when Dean’s rebuilding the engine of an old Ford. He’s just finishing the fiddly job of inserting the C-clips in the pistons, making sure the last one is settled in the groove when he hears Jo’s voice calling out from across the forecourt, “Phone for you, boss!” When Dean looks up, he sees her at the top of the stairs outside the office holding out the phone and waggling it in Dean’s direction. He wipes his hands on a greasy rag and stuffs it into the back pocket of his jeans. He jogs over to her, taking the small set of steps two at a time and Jo hands the phone off to him.

“Sounds hot.” She grins and then flounces away. 

Dean takes the cordless phone back into the office and closes the door behind himself. “Winchester Auto Repairs, Dean speaking.”

“Hello, Dean.” 

Yeah, Jo’s not wrong.

  
  


***

“He totes wants to butter your bagel, y’know.” Charlie announces randomly, a couple of rounds into Pandemic: Reign of Cthulhu.

Dean’s not sure whether to be more horrified at Charlie’s charming turn of phrase or the  _ Evil Stirs  _ card she draws from the deck. 

“Who?” Dean asks carefully, watching as Charlie reveals another Old One. It’s Ithaqua. Fuck. 

“Shit.” Charlie and Sam groan in unison, and yeah shit is right; this is their fourth Old One already. “ _ Castiel _ .” She adds with a quick glance and smirk in Dean’s direction. 

Dean reaches into the communal bowl of M&Ms, comes back with a handful and funnels them into his mouth. He chews loudly and obnoxiously, hoping to irritate them both into  _ not having this conversation _ . Instead, Charlie just grins at him, clearly aware of his game, and so Dean swallows the chocolatey mouthful, grabs his beer, because this may well be happening, but nobody says Dean has to be sober for it, “And what makes you think that?”

The look Charlie’s giving him morphs into sympathy and Dean wanting to puke has nothing to do with the beer and chocolate sloshing around in his gut and everything to do with her pity. “Oh Dean,” She glances between him and Sam, and apparently finding nothing but confusion on Sam’s face too, explains to the two socially-inept weirdos in front of her: “Nobody goes to that much effort if they don’t wanna get in your pants.”

Dean isn’t really sure what to say to that. It’s a thought he’s had himself, but just when he builds up the attraction as mutual, he sees Cas again, who promptly shoots holes in it like a paper target. He’s so hot and cold that Katy Perry wrote a freakin’ song about him. 

In fact, Dean’s beginning to suspect that Cas’ level of effort in all things is directly related to money. Certainly not to Dean. 

In the face of Dean’s silence, Charlie throws her arms up in the air, nearly upending the board in the process and Dean really doesn’t want to be finding little green cultists in the carpet for the next week, so he’s grateful for his brother’s reflexes when he reaches out and steadies the board. “Were you not here the other week when he and Benny damn near threw down over you? Because Sam and I had front row seats, and what a show it was!”

Dean tilts his head back on a sigh. “Charlie--”

“No, Dean,” She slaps his thigh with the back of her hand, reshuffles the summoning deck, “He looooves you, he wants to kiiiiiiiss youuu.”

Yeahhh, time to bring this crazy train into the station.

“He held a gun to my head, Charlie!”

“Yeah,” Charlie concedes with a shrug, unconcerned. She pops an M&M into her mouth, “But you are kind of annoying.”

_ Oh. right. Fair enough then?!? _

His brother is staying uncharacteristically quiet. And that just won’t do. “What do you think Sam? She’s crazy, right?”

Sam scratches lazily at an invisible mark on his arm, “I have thought about shooting you a couple of times,” He admits, completely devoid of irony or any indication that he may be joking, “Even made it halfway to the store to apply for a permit.” 

_ Helpful. _

“Good to know,  _ ass _ , but you know what I mean.”

Sam sighs like he’s just  _ done  _ with all this, and yeah he’s not the only one. He moves his reporter four places through Dunwich into Kingsport. “I’ve already told you that I don’t like the way he looks at you, Dean.”

“And how does he look at me, Sammy?”

Sam’s face twists in a grimace. “Like he wants to...butter your bagel.”

“Told you,” Charlie replies triumphantly, as Dean rolls the sanity die. “He totally wants in your pants.”

The die lands face-up on the double swirls.

“You lose your two remaining sanity tokens.” Sam points out, “You’re insane now,” And yep. That sounds about right.

  
  
  


***

  
  


The next afternoon sees him standing outside of a bar that really doesn’t belong in the neighborhood it’s situated in. The surrounding buildings may as well have their decor as blood spatter for all the fights and violence that they’ve likely seen, but the bar is all clean lines and proper, well-maintained signage. 

_ One of these things is not like the others. _

Inside it’s the same story. Neat rows of a mix of high and low tables, a bar that runs the full length of the split level floor. It’s all surprisingly sophisticated. There’s no music playing and the couple of widescreen TVs that Dean can see from his position by the door are switched off.

Castiel’s sitting by himself at the bar, back to the doorway, navy blue long-sleeved shirt untucked from his skintight black jeans, but Dean can still see the tell-tale shape of a gun tucked down the back of his waistband underneath the shirttail, and he loosely wonders just how uncomfortable it must be with a gun digging into your lower back and ass for ninety percent of your existence. 

Not that Dean’s thinking about Castiel’s ass, because he’s  _ not _ . 

But there must be a more efficient way to carry a gun, surely? Why do gangsters never wear holsters? Are holsters not cool anymore? Has John Wayne gone out of style??

All excellent questions to ask if he doesn’t get killed in his first week. 

Castiel is the only patron at the moment, but it’s probably less likely to do with the time of day and everything to do with who Cas is and the amount of power he wields.

_ Best not go there. _

If Dean’s being honest - and he seems to be more often than not these days - he’s still waiting for the sight of Castiel to get old. For it to not affect him the way that it does every. damn. time. 

According to Charlie and Sam, the feeling is mutual?

Nah. 

He straddles a barstool next to Castiel and they’re pressed so close in an otherwise empty bar that they’re practically sharing body heat. 

Castiel snags and catches Dean’s eye as he gestures with his half-glass of bourbon to the dude behind the bar, who Dean hadn’t even noticed. “Drink? It’s on my tab.”

“Sure,” Dean’s been making a habit of day drinking lately. Two in the afternoon is practically midnight, “I’ll have a--”

“Let me guess,” Castiel interrupts, considering Dean with that damn head tilt. Dean tries to focus on something other than the blush rising in his cheeks as his blood warms under Cas’s heated gaze. Castiel  _ hmms _ , decided, but doesn’t turn to look at the bartender, instead keeping his attention on Dean, “An El Sol, with a slice of lime in the neck of the bottle?”

Dean laughs, “That’s what you’re going with? Seriously? It’s freakin’ November dude; an El Sol is for those days where you’ve been sweating like fuck in the summer sun after some hard manual labor, and you’re finally finished, so you sit your sweaty ass down in the shade, put your feet up and get yourself an ice cold light Mexican beer.”

Dean can imagine it now and he subconsciously licks his lips, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. He doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s eyes flicker down to track the motion.

_ Oh. _

Dean fishes around in his brain for something,  _ anything _ else to say to cut through the rising... _ ahem _ …tension, but he comes up empty. There’s nothing in there but sexual innuendos and voicing them wouldn’t be conducive to avoiding the temptation to mount Castiel right here and now. 

Throughout the entirety of Dean’s internal flailing, Castiel watches him, studying him, but now his eyes are darkened with something that Dean  _ can  _ place, but isn’t sure he wants to for fear of getting his hopes up again. Finally, Castiel says, “Uh-huh,” and breaks the contact - which is just as well, because Dean’s already beginning to sweat under the neck of his collared shirt - and says to the bartender, “He’ll have a scotch on the rocks.”

_ Damn. Educated guess or a Derren Brown-style mindfuck? _

As the bartender readies his drink, Dean swallows hard, dry throat clicking. Castiel seems content to stare at Dean again, eyes warm and amused, and Dean deliberately doesn’t turn into the full force of Castiel’s intensity.

The bartender places Dean’s drink on a little beer coaster and slides it across the bar to Dean, before making himself scarce.

“You know,” Dean braves, taking a sip of his drink, “If you take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Is that an invitation?”

_ Go big or go home, Winchester. _

“I guess it depends. If you need a photo for a dossier or a hitlist, then I certainly won’t make it easy for you. You want one for your personal collection, then I’m about as easy as they come.”

Castiel seems to consider this, “Good to know.”

There’s a tone in his voice. Before the conversation with Charlie and Sam the night before, Dean might have believed he was mistaking it out of some pathetic, wishful thinking, except there’s the way that Castiel is  _ still _ looking at him, backing it up. 

“Yeah?” Dean asks, shakily. And tries to crack a joke to ease the tension, “Probably not the kind of shooting you had in mind though, right?”

Castiel’s smile turns wicked and Dean belatedly realizes that there are too many interpretations for  _ shooting  _ that he hadn’t entirely accounted for before he opened his mouth. He scrambles to clarify, “I meant like shooting a gun and shooting pictures, not any other interpretation!”

Except he totally did. 

“Shame.” Castiel murmurs after an excruciating moment, pad of his thumb absent-mindedly scraping across his bottom lip as he regards Dean with what Dean acutely recognizes as a bagel-buttering look. 

Oh shit.

Now Dean’s no blushing virgin (though he is kinda blushing right now), but holy fucking fuck. 

Flustered and one false move away from making this decent place positively indecent, Dean shoots for cool, but seeing as he’s only passing acquaintances with the concept, he fails spectacularly, “So, this place is pretty neat,”  _ \- who the fuck even says neat anymore? - _ “Do you...come here often?”

He’s inwardly cringing before the words are even out of his mouth. 

Cas, quite frankly, is enjoying this way too much and it really isn’t fair. 

“I own it, so yes.” 

Well. 

It’s hard not to be impressed with the guy’s entrepreneurial spirit. Amongst other things. 

Goddamn. This was so much easier when Castiel was busy being an asshole and screwing Dean out of a decent percent for his soon-to-be-hard work.

_ Was it though? _

Dean reaches for his glass with an unsteady hand. Tries to focus. They’re here to discuss business and this is kinda really important, so Dean rallies all three of his brain cells not currently playing a porno scene of him and Cas doing it on the bar, and asks, “Have you decided what to do about Henrickson yet?”

Like a switch has been flipped, the charming, sexy fucker from mere seconds ago is replaced by a slightly less charming, but no less sexy fucker. Okay, so maybe it’s more of a dimmer switch, but still, "I decided as soon as I realized what a problem he is," Castiel says somewhat huffily and Dean barely suppresses a choked snort of laughter as he swallows a mouthful of the smoothest scotch he’s ever had, “If you’d just let me--”

“ _ No _ ."

Castiel finally turns back to his drink and Dean can breathe again, "I'll most likely have to bribe him," he mutters like the thought of giving someone money over shooting them disgusts him. 

Thinking back over their previous interactions, Dean's beginning to suspect that is actually the case.

"What if he can't be bribed?"

"Then he's your problem."

"What?" Dean splutters, "But we had a deal."

"Yes. I said I'd  _ try _ to come up with something else. I've tried. If he doesn't want the money and I can't kill him, then we're all out of options."

It's really that simple, apparently. Well, so is this, "You're a real asshole, you know that?"

"Yes," Castiel says again, water off a duck's back, tilting his head back and draining his drink. He slams the empty glass down on the bar, "And I should have shot you when I had the chance. We all have our crosses to bear."

He climbs off his stool with more effortless grace than anything Dean’s ever witnessed - and Dean’s been to the ballet for fuck’s sake - and leans forward into Dean's space, smelling like everything Dean’s ever wanted, wrapped up in one seriously psychotic package. His lips ghost over the curve of Dean's ear when he says, "The money's in the trunk of your car. Don't fuck it up."

And with that RuPaul-esque advice, he's squeezing Dean's shoulder for a split second, warmth and reassurance bleeding through, before he disappears.

Dean feels the phantom touch all the way home. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


Dean’s rustling up some dinner for him and Ben (AKA ordering in a pizza) a few evenings later when he receives a text:

_ CAS: 'Bribe rejected. One other avenue to explore before I'm washing my hands of this. Delete this message.' _

Dick.

Dean types back.  _ 'Helpful as always, Cas. Don't delete this message. Keep it as a reminder for when I'm in fucking jail.' _

_ CAS: 'So melodramatic.' _

Dean doesn't reply to that, because really what can he say? 

  
  


***

  
  


In the early hours, his phone vibrates on the nightstand. It doesn’t wake him up, because he's already very much  _ up _ and decidedly not thinking about blue eyes and tattoos. 

_ CAS: 'Problem solved. Henrickson's been relocated. Sample has been acquired.' _

Dean wipes his hand on his sternum, types out:

_ 'By "relocated" you mean…?' _

_ CAS: 'I mean he's no longer your problem.' _

Dean's about to reply, when his phone buzzes again.  __

_CAS: 'He's been promoted to Sergeant at Houston PD. He's leaving tomorrow.'_

Well, fuck. Friends in high places, indeed.  __


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys!!!! You make me so happy with all of your insightful, thirsty comments (I'm right there with you, you have no idea how difficult it's been drawing this out)! I hope that this chapter goes some way to make up for the lackage of smut so far, and fear not because there is more on the way!
> 
> This is probably my personal favourite chapter and it’s definitely the turning point (in more ways than one) in their relationship - squee!
> 
> Also, I'mma try my best to take the time to respond to all comments going forwards, because I love reading them and it seems too one-sided of me not to respond with how grateful I am for every single one! <3

The holidays come and go without much fanfare. For the first year since Dean met Benny, he and the rest of his extended family sit around Jess and Sam’s table together, rather than all coming round to Dean’s for Benny’s outstanding cooking (and Dean’s sparkling company). They eat pretty good turkey, pull cheap crackers, play charades and drink far too much. They swap presents, and Dean gets a new watch from Sam, courtesy of his boosted income, and a bumper pack of condoms and a ginormous pump bottle of Astroglide lube from Charlie.

He also gets a couple more deliveries from Cas and his goons. A couple of pick-ups too. 

Of course, he doesn’t get the one thing he really wants. 

  
  


***

It’s late on a chilly Wednesday night in mid-January and Dean’s by himself at the garage, about to close up shop for the evening so he can get the hell home and tuck Ben into bed, when he spots a shadow in his peripheral vision. Dean switches the lights off in the office, locks the door.

The figure materializes in the dim light at the foot of the shadowy stairs.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean drops the keys in the pocket of his leather jacket, turns the collar up as he descends the steps, “Hey, Cas.” 

He meets him at the bottom.

“What’s up?” 

Things have been going well -- _ too well _ \-- so Dean’s not super worried about Cas’ unscheduled appearance, just completely affected.

Business as usual, then. 

“There’s going to be some cars of mine coming your way tomorrow afternoon,” Castiel informs him as they walk through the forecourt together, Dean switching lights off as they go, plunging sections into complete darkness. “I need you to take the delivery for me and I’ll get Gabriel or Micheal to pick them up in the evening.”

Oh Michael,  _ yay. _ Dean’s glad it’s his day off.

Perhaps naively, Dean assumes that it’s the cars themselves Castiel is interested in. “What are they? BMWs, Mercs?” They step outside and Dean reaches up to yank the shutter down. 

“No. Some Hondas, I believe.”

Oh.  _ Ohhhhh. _

“What’s in ‘em, Cas?” He tries to come off as casual as he reaches into his pocket for the keys, clicking the padlock shut, and setting the alarm, but if the glare Castiel is trying to burn through the side of his face is anything to go by, then he’s missed the mark by a mile.

“That isn’t your concern.” Castiel goes to walk away, presumably to the sleek black dick-mobile parked halfway down the street, and no, Dean is not having this shit.

“I think you’ll find it is,” Dean calls out after him, “This is my livelihood, man. I need to know what’s going on.”

Castiel turns back to Dean, “You don’t  _ need _ to know anything. You want to know because--”

“--I’m infuriating? ‘An insouciant prick’?” Dean rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. That held more weight when I wasn’t making you a small fortune every damn week, Cas. C’mon, we’re supposed to be business partners, man.”

Walking backward, with an arrogant, unrepentant smirk on his face, Castiel says, “I always thought partnerships were equal? Fifty-fifty. Maybe even seventy-thirty. Definitely not  _ eighty-five-fifteen, _ ” And then he’s fucking off into the darkness as Dean hears the low rumble of an expensive engine start up.

Asshole. 

Dean jingles his keys in his palm, teeth grating. 

Fine. If Cas won’t tell him, then Dean’ll just have to find out for himself.

  
  


***

Nineteen hours later sees him, Sam, and Charlie standing in Dean’s closed garage, looking down at ten baggies of colorful pills. Cas or whoever packed the cars full of drugs had hidden them in the trunk, under the spare wheel, and really that’s so super fucking obvious that it makes Dean want to cry.

He would’ve been less conspicuous just gluing them to the windshield, all macaroni art with social commentary, and crashing the cars into the police station.

Really, Dean’s lucky that Bobby or Jo didn’t find the drugs before he’d had a chance to, because then he’d be in the shit all over again, and he’s not sure how easily Bobby would be persuaded not to turn them all in again.

Castiel may be a pretty big wheel down at the money-laundering factory, but Dean’s worked damn hard for everything he has and there’s no way he’s losing it all due to some exceptionally attractive fucker simply because he thinks he owns everything, and can do whatever the hell he wants. 

So yeahhh, there’s no way that Dean isn’t gonna make Cas pay through the fucking nose for this. 

“What are they?” Sam asks, bending at the waist and picking up a bag.

_ ‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I'll be the--’ _

Ignore.

“Drugs, Sammy.” Dean replies just to be an asshole, replacing his phone in the back pocket of his jeans.

Beyond that, he’s not sure. It’s not coke, heroin, LSD or any of that shit. Maybe some kind of popper? Do people even still do poppers these days?

Sam tosses the bag over to Dean. There’s gotta be at least a couple hundred in this one alone. A few thousand altogether across all of the bags, maybe. 

“I know someone who can find out for us.” Charlie says, mesmerized by the colors in the bag that Dean’s turning over in his hands, “There’s a dude who works with me at Kwik Bargainz who sells drugs, he’ll be able to identify them.”

Sam leans forward to look past Dean, at Charlie. “Are there any of you over there that aren’t criminals?”

“You’re a funny man, Sam Winchester.”

  
  


***

  
  


Dean isn’t there when the drugs get identified, but he’s reliably informed by Sam, Charlie and her drug-dealer colleague, Max, that they’re all prescription drugs, most likely imported from Canada.

Interesting, to say the least.

Dean’s spent the last few hours researching and going back and forth about whether this is something he actually wants to get involved in beyond the potential for getting one over on Cas. 

Which is the main draw, if he's being honest. He's been slowly plotting since they shook hands on the laundering deal back in November, just waiting on the perfect opportunity to flip their dynamic and here it is. 

Of course, it also helps that fifteen percent split between four of them (because Dean's a dick, sure, but his brother, friend and ex have to get paid too) is barely minimum wage for all the effort that Dean goes to. He's working more hours than ever, and seeing even less return.

He's heard the phrase that crime doesn't pay, but this is just ridiculous.

_ 'I am a man who will fight for your honor, I'll be--' _

Dean lets it ring off to voicemail even though his inbox is already full with multiple variations of,  _ 'Dean, answer the phone, do  _ **_not_ ** _ make me come down there,' _ and  _ 'Answer the fucking phone, Dean, this isn't funny'. _

And that's where Dean's gonna have to disagree, because this shit's hilarious.

He's been ignoring Cas' calls and texts since the cars arrived, and his stomach fizzes with a nervous kind of excitement when he finally phones him back. He doesn’t bother with any preamble when the line clicks and Castiel’s voice swears at him with a vehemence that really shouldn’t make Dean halfway hard in his jeans. 

“Hey, Cas.” He greets pleasantly, “Get your cars okay yesterday?”

He did, Dean knows he did, because it was Gabriel that picked them up, a small mercy. Unfortunately, too-trusting Gabe didn’t check to make sure their actual merchandise was inside, so he and some other goons drove off with a smile and a thanks and Dean waved them off, knowing Cas’ drugs were securely stashed in his safe. 

“Dean--”

“‘Cause, it’s interesting, y’know. There was something in the trunk, just there, for anybody to find.” He kicks his feet up on the desk, milking this moment for all it's worth, because it's entirely possible that after today he's not going to have many more, “Prescription drugs. Can you believe that? Especially with the state of this country’s healthcare system. I bet these would sell for a fortune.”

“Listen, Dean--”

“No. You listen, Cas.” Dean fights to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Either we can settle this like civilized criminals or I can sell this stash and keep all of the money, and do the same with any subsequent vehicles that come through my shop. I’ll leave it to you. I’ll be here for another couple of hours, so if you decide to drop by then there better not be any guns involved or I’ll never tell you where your drugs are.”

And with that (and mildly shaking hands), he hangs up.

  
  
  


***

  
  


It’s a nerve-wracking forty-eight minute waiting for Castiel to turn up. 

But when he does, oh boy, is he magnificent. 

He’s throwing the office door open, damn near tearing it off the hinges and Dean can barely get around his desk before Castiel’s chest to chest with him, pushing him backward, pure fire and brimstone in his eyes and it's honestly not Dean's fault that he whimpers a little in the face of it.

“Where are the drugs, Dean?”

No  _ ‘Hello, Dean’ _ ? Well, that’s just rude.

“Not here.” Dean answers, and Castiel swears and reaches for what could either be his phone or his gun, but Dean’s placing his bets on, yep--

Castiel pulls out his gun, cocks it and holds it to the underside of Dean's chin, cool metal grazing Dean’s day-end stubble.

It’s getting to the point where no interaction of theirs is complete without Cas pulling a gun on him.

Dean swallows hard, fights for control over his voice, “You shoot me, you ain’t getting shit, Cas.”

“I don’t care.” Cas grits. 

Dean kinda believes him, but this isn’t the first time Cas has held a gun to his head and he’s lived to tell the tale. He’s hoping to push his luck just a little bit more, “Alternatively, you could always get that gun out of my face and we could come to an agreement.”

Castiel flicks the safety off.

Not the reaction he’d been hoping for.

Dean juts out his chin and says, “Fine,” even though it’s anything but. “You’ll never find them then.”

There’s nothing for a few heartstopping moments and Dean’s starting to think he’s read the situation wrong.

“ _ Fuck. _ ” Castiel breathes on a harsh exhale, lowering the gun with reluctance, “Fine.”

Dean slides out from under him, tries to compose himself as he slips back behind his desk. 

“Take a seat.” Dean gestures to the chair opposite. 

Castiel stays standing, looking singularly unimpressed.

“Suit yourself.” Dean mutters, sits down himself because if he doesn't, he's gonna fall down, his legs are that unsteady, “So, err, look. As far as I’m concerned, the way you’re bringing these drugs in is as risky as fuck. You’re a smart businessman, you have to know that.”

No reaction. Okay.

Dean has nothing to lose at this point, really, so he just goes for it. “A more secure way would be in the airbags.”

Castiel raises both eyebrows, clearly skeptical. Dean plows on. “You’d have to disable the bags first of course, otherwise if there’s a crash they’ll be everywhere.” He mimes an explosion. “But I can fit them for you, even show a couple of your guys how to do it if you want me to.”

“That--” Castiel starts, apparently thinks better of it, stops, lips pressed tightly together.

Something like hope flutters in Dean’s chest. 

Castiel leans against the narrow window sill opposite Dean, legs crossed at the ankles. He gestures with his gun for Dean to go on. 

“So, uhh, it depends on the make and model of car, and the type of airbag fitted, but you could easily fit a hundred pills per car.” He holds up his hand to stop Cas’ inevitable interruption, “I get that you’re topping out around three hundred per car right now, but the risk is so freakin’ high, man. Especially if you’ve got gangbangers driving them across the border. You must lose a fair few guys to the CBP, along with the pills, am I right?”

Dean deliberately doesn’t think about the guy that got caught by the feds that Cas incidentally informed Dean that he _ had.  _ As in past tense. As in shot in the face and fed to the fishes. Or something. 

Castiel isn’t saying anything, but he’s also not shooting Dean either, so Dean takes it as a good sign.

He holds his hands out, palms up, “So fewer drugs per vehicle,” he drops his left, “but they’re almost one hundred percent guaranteed to reach their destination.” He lifts it back up, higher than his right.

“It’s a good idea,” Castiel admits slowly after a moment’s consideration. He flips the safety of his gun, and places it on the sill next to his thigh. Dean breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Yeah?” 

Castiel tilts his head and the look he sends Dean’s way, Dean’s not sure what to do with.

He clears his throat, about to offer something that unsettles him even more than the previously discussed illegality, "I can change the VINs and plates on the cars every so often as well. It'll reduce the risk of getting pulled over in the first place, and it’ll save you a small cost on the cars themselves too; however you’ve been acquiring them and disposing of them.”

"Stealing and then torching them.” Castiel answers, confirming Dean’s suspicions.

"This is much more efficient," Dean assures him, "Should keep you off the cops’ radar too." Though considering the friends in high places thing, Dean’s not sure how real a concern the local police actually are. 

"Fine," Castiel says eventually, “We can give your way a trial run, see how things go.”

Dean exhales on a long breath, relieved, “So what exactly are we talking about here?”

“The cars come in from up North. From now on, they’ll come through you for distribution. Around ten or so a week. I’ll send some of my men over so you can show them how to fit the airbags at the other end. Text me a list of the cars and airbag models you’ll need.”

“Okay,” Dean says, not quite sure whether to believe that this is actually happening. Now that he's won his pitch, the reality of what he's just gotten himself involved in hits with a sort of cold wash, but he pushes through because it's step up or get broken down, “What’s my cut?”

“Thirty.” Castiel answers and Dean scoffs.

“Thirty? It’s my name above the door, my name at stake here. I have more to lose.”

“So what?”

“So, thirty ain’t good enough, Cas.”

Castiel sighs, looks to the water-stained ceiling like he’s asking God to give him strength. “Thirty-five.”

Dean leans back in his chair, hands in his lap. “Do you even want your pharmacy back?”

“Why don’t--” Castiel starts, stops, fists clenching. Dean can tell he's making a sincere effort not to reach for his gun and Dean appreciates his God (if that God is Zeus)-like restraint. After a moment of jaw grinding, and with forced patience, Cas adds, “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for?”

“Fifty-fifty."

At that, Dean earns himself an eyebrow arch, “Not a chance.”

And it’s time for Dean to bring out the big guns. He just hopes his information is accurate. “Assuming you’re buying generic Canadian, with your typical drug-dealer markup, your profit margin should be at least five times what I’m making laundering your money.” Castiel finally looks at him properly since the start of this conversation, really looks at him, like he's never seen him before, “And if it’s not, you’re doing something wrong and I’ll happily look into that as well.”

Just call him Heisenberg. Fuck yeah.

Castiel just stares at him, eyes dark and bottomless. Finally, he says the last thing Dean expects, which is, “You look good behind that desk.”

Puzzled, but pleased Dean responds, “Thank you?”

“You’d look so much better on top of it.”

Holy  _ fuck. _

Dean tries to ignore the heat that the words illicit, desire curling in his stomach, blood rushing to fill his rapidly hardening cock, “Do we have a deal?”

Castiel gives a slight nod, “Mmm-hmm.”

“Great.”

  
  


***

As soon as Cas deposits him on the edge of the desk, arm sweeping out to get rid of the clutter, sending papers and near-empty coffee cups to the floor, Dean’s pawing at Cas’ shirt, ripping it open, buttons pinging everywhere. Throat to stomach, Cas’ tattooed, toned skin is available to him for the first time and  _ holy fuck. _

He curls his hands under the open shirt, around Cas’ bare hips, drags him closer and Castiel grinds forward, sinking his teeth into Dean’s skin like he knows what Dean’s thinking and Dean swears he can feel Cas’ smirk against the wet-hot bruise he leaves in the dip of Dean’s throat.

Asshole.

“You’re a dick,” Dean says, hand snaking up Castiel’s body, fisting in his hair and jerking him into a passionate, overwhelming kiss, mouths pressed together, lips dragging wetly between teasing scrapes of teeth and presses of tongue. Dean slips his other hand between the tight crush of their bodies, unbuttoning Cas' pants and yanking the fly open, palming the thick length of his cock, squeezing gently through black cotton. 

“You drive me crazy,” Castiel bites against Dean’s mouth, shoving his own pants and boxers halfway down his ass, just far enough for Dean to get a hand around his bare cock, acquainting himself with the blood-rich heft of it, the ridges of veins, thick and long and oh so goddamn hot. “Never sure whether I want to kill you or fuck you.”

_ Death threat or love letter? _

“Right back at ya, Cas.” Dean murmurs (even though he’s completely sure), as he slowly jacks Cas’ glorious dick in the open V of his pants, smearing his thumb through the wetness gathered at the slit. 

“Dean,” Cas’s voice scrapes lower, all dirty-hot want, and Dean pulls back just enough to look at the bastard; blue eyes black, pupils completely blown, hair all fucked up from Dean’s wandering hands, shirt ripped open to the waist, those tattoos, those hip bones, cock huge and hard for Dean, fuck--

“Save the gunplay for later, fuck me now.” Dean demands, unbuttoning his own shirt and lifting his hips up off the desk enough that Cas can slide his palms under Dean’s ass, dragging his jeans and boxers down past his knees. He yanks hard, pulling Dean’s left ankle out of his pants. 

“Lube? Condom?” Castiel breathes, as soon as he’s back on him, plush mouth ghosting Dean’s.

Well, shit. 

For all the kinky shit Dean’s done, he’s never done something as vanilla as having sex in his own office and Charlie's extra thoughtful Christmas present is still shoved in a drawer at home. So no lube, no condoms. 

It’s also kinda reassuring that Cas doesn’t have anything on him either; at least it means that he’s not always ready and willing to fuck just anyone who lets themselves be seduced by a -- and Dean means this as a compliment of the highest order -- pretty cheesy pickup line. 

“Next time,” Dean promises in between frantic kisses, little more than molesting each other’s mouths, “Fuck me next time.”

Cas pulls back a fraction, and his eyes flash to Dean’s, jet black and lethal, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. He looks like he wants to tear Dean apart, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Hands riding up Dean’s thighs, gripping Dean’s ass, Cas settles between Dean’s spread legs, pins him down against the desk, hips and dicks aligned, bodies grinding together. 

“Shit.” Dean whimpers, tightens his grip on Cas’ shoulders, Cas’ DNA underneath his fingernails as he claws at inked skin and flawless muscle. He hooks his pants-less leg around Cas’s hip, creating more delicious friction, the weight of Cas’ body against his, and he can’t do anything but pull him in closer, tighter, until there’s nothing between them but the breath they’re sharing, bodies already sweat-slick and hot like burning. 

He keens, arching his lower back, heel skidding through the sweat pooling at the base of Cas’ spine, rucking up Cas’ shirt and pushing his pants down further. Cas growls, radiating danger, and Dean has never wanted anyone as much as he does this fucker. 

“Cas--” Dean manages, “make me come.” 

The angle is awkward as fuck, and he can feel something digging into his kidney, but it’s hard to care when Cas is practically molded to him, rock hard velvet of his cock rubbing slick over Dean’s hipbone, teeth in Dean’s throat, hands everywhere, pressing bruises into his tender flesh. 

Cas leverages his weight off Dean, palm flat against the desk, tattooed bicep flexing beneath the capped sleeve of his shirt and Dean drops his leg from Cas’ hip, leans up on his elbows, just so he can see this show in all its fucking glory. Cocks pressed together, Cas wraps his other hand around the both of them as best he can, and Dean whines low in his throat, hips stuttering, fucking his cock into the meat of Cas' palm. 

“You going to help or just lie back and think of England?” Cas snipes, smashing his mouth to Dean’s before he can answer, chins grazing with rough scrapes of day-end stubble, fist squeezed tight, hips rolling together. 

Dean wants to tell him that he’s done enough heavy lifting for one day and that it’s Cas’ turn in this partnership, but he can’t think above the noise of the wet, fevered slap of skin on skin, as Cas strokes them both hard and fast, flesh on flesh, musky, salty scent of them together. Cas spits between their bodies, right where they’re pressed so close together that Dean can feel the throb of Cas’ heartbeat through his cock, rough friction made slick, and it's so filthy hot that Dean can't do anything but let his eyes flutter closed, his whole body shuddering, hands curling over the lip of the desk, splintering wood and blood blooming underneath short fingernails.

Fuck, he’s gonna come -- he knows it right before he actually does, hips jerking wildly, spurting jaggedly over Cas' fist, as he hooks an arm around Cas' neck, sinks his teeth into Cas’s swollen bottom lip, hisses, “Asshole.”

Cas’ laugh is breathless as he rides Dean’s hip, cockhead slipping through the slick mess on Dean’s stomach, before he’s adding to it, coming in long wet streaks, mouth smeared against Dean’s, growling low in his throat.

His arm wobbles and gives way, sending them both crashing back against the desk, and Dean  _ oofs _ with the solid weight of Cas, bodies, skin, and heartbeats pressed together. Face inches from Dean’s, Cas leans in with an amused smirk and pecks Dean on the mouth, “Just call me Oprah.”

  
  


***

  
  


It’s only a little awkward as they slowly redress and Dean takes stock of the damage to his office. There’s coffee splattered up one of side of the counter, ceramic mugs smashed, crumpled papers scattered literally everywhere, and the room smells like sex. 

Dean stoops to pick up a button from Cas’ shirt, hands it to him. 

“Thanks,” Cas says dryly, looks down at his totally decimated shirt and the dry, flaking come on the flat plane of his stomach, then back up at Dean, eyebrow raised. His hair is completely wild from Dean's frantic yanking and he looks like every wet dream Dean's had since he discovered what his dick was for.

It’s really unfair that Dean’s not nineteen anymore, because if he was he’d already be hard again and ready to go. 

As it is, his dick makes an attempt to rally, but he's not sure he'd survive another round with Cas right now, so instead he just steps around his desk, starts collecting papers.

Cas tucks his gun back into the waistband of his pants, says, “I’ll text you when the next load of cars is due, probably next Thursday.”

Oh yeah. 

Dean dumps the pages on the desk, drops down on his haunches to the safe in the corner. Making sure to block the safe so that Cas can’t see the combination - can never be too careful, there’s a lot of criminals about these days - Dean reaches in and grabs out the one bag he has stashed here. The rest are somewhere safe, to be sold in the case of his death. 

He can practically hear Castiel rolling his eyes behind him.

He straightens up, tosses the bag to Cas, who catches it with one hand, the suave fucker.

“I’ll get the rest back to you as soon as I retrieve them.” Dean says, “What’s your address again?”

Castiel smiles serenely, “I’ll send someone to pick them up tomorrow.”

Uh huh.

“Okay,” Dean returns the smile - too fucked out to argue - which ratchets up into a grin as he notices Castiel’s gaze snag somewhere just south of his face. “See you around then, Cas.”

Castiel turns to leave and Dean finishes buttoning up his shirt with clumsy fingers.  _ Goddamn.  _ Tonight certainly went better than he’d anticipated. Of course, he’d anticipated getting shot, so walking away with a fifty-fifty split of profits and some of the best sex he’s had is a win by anyone’s standards. 

Still, Dean’s not just anyone - he’s Dean Winchester, infuriating, insouciant prick - so he’s aiming for one final fist-pumping victory. 

He waits until Cas is halfway out of the open office door before he calls out after him, “Cas?”

Castiel pauses and looks back at Dean, waiting expectantly. 

"I would've taken thirty."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh, thank you, you wonderful people for your excellent comments! They really do make me do a little happy dance!
> 
> The next part turned out wayyyyy longer than I expected it to, so instead of posting a mahoosive chapter on Thursday, I decided to split it into two and post the slightly smaller section today and the longer one as scheduled on Thursday. 
> 
> Just a head's up; it's all downhill from here - there will be nothing redeemable about this fic!

Of course, the sudden influx of new  _ business  _ through Dean’s shop results in a couple of raised eyebrows from Bobby and Jo, who must be wondering why Dean’s getting deliveries of perfectly working Hondas and then dismantling the airbags. Dean doesn’t deign to go into any detail -  _ can’t get caught in a lie if you don’t tell one _ \- and simply claims that he’s doing some work for a corporate client.

Which isn’t  _ strictly  _ a lie. 

More importantly though, with the sharp increase of the aforementioned  _ business _ , Cas' collections and deposits have gone up too. Which means more money and more Cas.

And that is  _ absolutely fine _ with Dean. 

"Fuck," Cas groans, head falling back against the wall of Dean’s bedroom, exposing the long line of his neck, angel wings fluttering with every harsh gasp for breath, eyes a thin sliver of blue staring down at Dean on his knees, "You look good like that."

Dean swallows around the velvety thickness in his mouth, throat constricting. His hand tightens on Cas’ thigh, digs into the firm muscle. His own dick aches in his pants.

Castiel cups Dean’s jaw, devious smile quirking his mouth, "Of course, it helps that you can't talk right now." 

Just for that, Dean lightly scrapes his teeth along Cas' length, " _ Shit. _ " Cas' hips snap forward, almost too fast, cockhead plugging Dean’s throat for a heartstopping moment, and Dean has to get a hand around his own dick or he’s gonna come in his pants like a teenager. 

His lashes are spiked with wetness as he looks up at Cas, silently asking for permission, and it’s a calculated move because he knows  _ exactly _ what he looks like. 

Cas swears harshly, nods almost imperceptibly, and that’s all Dean needs. He tugs the waistband of his gray sweatpants down, elastic snug under his balls, and he starts jerking himself off, trying to match the pace at which Cas is thrusting into his mouth, past his gag reflex, hand fisted in Dean’s hair to hold him still whilst he fucks his face, all slick wet sounds and low moans. 

“ _ Dean. _ ”

That’s all the warning Dean receives before Castiel is coming hot and bitter across his tongue and down his throat, spilling out past the seal of his lips, and Cas makes a wild sound in the back of his throat. 

Dean fucks into the curve of his palm, smearing precome down the length of his cock and then he’s coming too, so hard his toes curl, making a mess of his favorite  _ DuckTales _ shirt. 

So yeah, things are pretty good. 

  
  


***

It’s drop-off/collection day and Dean’s feeling generous, so he’s treating both Sam and Charlie to lunch ( _ not _ at Benny’s bistro). They’re at a kinda kitschy place that Sam’s been wanting to visit for a while and is only a couple of blocks away from Cas’ bar. Which is kinda convenient, because Dean has a meeting there with the man himself afterward. 

Sam orders a salad - yes,  _ really _ \- and Charlie gets some kind of fancy pasta thing. Dean has a pizza (meat lovers, heh) because he’s a normal person. They talk about Charlie’s upcoming summer wedding - she’s trying to persuade Dorothy to get married in full Moondoor garb, complete with handmaidens, orcs and an honor guard (which Dean secretly thinks would be amazing as long as he gets to be a knight or something cool) - and Madison’s latest piano recital, which Dean’s actually sorry he missed, ‘cause it sounds like his niece had a ball playing completely out of both tune and key. An impressive feat for one someone who Sammy had once proclaimed as the new Martha Argerich.

Dean doesn’t have much to add to the conversation really. He’s been kinda fading into the background on the more domestic shit in favor of really getting his hands into the dirt when it comes to drugs and money. 

It’s not a particularly inspired life choice, but at least he’s not attended any bake sales recently, so there’s that. 

And Dean’s enjoying himself, he is; it’s kinda nice to not be talking about their illicit activities for a small window of time at least, but there’s a weird impatience settling in his bones, like he’s killing time until he can get to where he wants to be.

Of course, it’s only amplified when Sam unironically offers him a slice of tomato, because ‘ _ you need to eat a vegetable at least once a year Dean or you’ll develop scurvy.’ _

As far as diseases go, the pirate one isn’t exactly a disincentive. 

Dean’s expecting them to go their separate ways after they’ve eaten, but he forgets that Sam and Charlie have their merit badges in Fucking Up Dean’s Plans. 

“C’mon Dean,” Charlie wheedles, bumping Dean’s shoulder with hers, “We’re in on this too.”

And no, they’re really not. They get a cut, sure - again, because Dean’s not a total dick and he wants to see his family right - but they have none of the risk, and no real idea just how deep Dean is buried in this shit.

Still, keeping them away from Castiel is only going to raise more questions, so with a (hopefully) nonchalant shrug, Dean tells them that they can tag along. 

What could possibly go wrong?

  
  


***

  
  


It’s mid-afternoon, so the bar is busier than Dean’s first visit. There’s a lot of hipster-types, dressed in well-fitting suits and Dean takes a moment to wonder if they’ve just unknowingly walked into some kind of gangster conference. 

He’ll have to ask Cas if that’s a real thing; is there some kind of staff meeting every month where they discuss issues they’ve come up against? Health and safety regs? There must be some communication between upper management and the grunts, surely? 

And then he’s off on a tangent as he leads Sam and Charlie to a table near the back and they take their seats. Is Cas a good boss? He clearly inspires loyalty, but is that through fear or respect, or a little bit of both? Do his employees get healthcare? Is there a corporate ladder to climb? What is Dean’s position in the grand scheme of things? He’s gotta be pretty high up, right? 

All excellent questions to put to Cas post-coital; it’s about the only time that he seems to be open with Dean about anything he asks, so he’s been storing up questions like he’s hoarding toilet paper for the apocalypse. 

If they have sex enough, Dean figures they’ll eventually get through all of his queries. 

Not that either of them need added incentives.

Which is a supremely unhelpful thought to have as he stands there in the middle of Cas’ bar, with his brother and friend looking up at him, mildly concerned expressions on their faces.

Oh yeah, shit.

“I’ll go get us some drinks,” He says nodding towards the bar and shrugging out of his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair, “What do you want?”

Sam opens his mouth to answer, but then his eyes go wide and before Dean can either ask what ghost Sam’s seen now or turn around to look for himself, he feels a hand curl around his shoulder and slip down his bicep in a gesture that practically screams familiarity in an intimate way. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Castiel is already sitting down in a vacant chair by the time Dean drags what’s left of his wits together. 

He follows Cas’ lead and takes a seat, eyes nervously flitting between Sam and Charlie to see if they noticed the overly-familiar touch.

Judging by Charlie’s wide, shit-eating grin, she definitely noticed.

"Charlie, Sam." Castiel acknowledges, easy and charming, "It's good to see you both again."

"Yeah, you too Castiel." Charlie's practically bouncing in her seat. Then she leans forward across the table, voice a hushed whisper, “The drug thing was all Dean’s idea BT dubs. We had nothing to do with that.”

_ Oh. Brilliant. Thanks for reminding him, Charlie.  _

Castiel’s gaze slides from Charlie to Dean, smile sharp and predatory, “Good to know.”

Yeahhh, this isn’t gonna end well. 

Flustered as fuck and still not adept at hiding it from Cas, Dean makes a loose gesture in the direction of the bar. “Err, I was just going to get some drinks,”

As if on cue, the bartender comes over with a circular tray of four drinks.

This place doesn’t have table service. 

Dean dares to sneak a look at Cas, whose eyes promise nothing but retribution and Dean absolutely does not squirm in his seat, a little bit too hot under the collar considering his brother and friend are sitting less than four feet away. 

"I made a guess as to what you might like to drink," Castiel says to Sam and Charlie, turning his intensity meter down from ‘boner-inducing’ to ‘charismatic acquaintance’. Judging by their impressed faces, it was a good guess (or more of that mind-reading shit). Castiel leans a little into Dean in the tight space, shoulders brushing, that  _ damn cologne _ , and says in a tone of voice that promises dirty-hot things, "Scotch on the rocks, right Dean?"

Oh fuck _ this _ .

“Yeah, thanks Cas,” He smiles coyly and licks his lips, because two can play at this game and Dean plays to  _ win _ . “Would’ve preferred a light Mexican beer though.”

Castiel’s expression turns serrated and dangerous, and apparently, it’s  _ on _ .

Sam can be kinda oblivious sometimes. It once took him an entire week to notice that Jess had painted their living room a muted shade of shit-brown. Even better - when they were teenagers, Dean replaced the liquid soap in all the motel rooms they stayed in over the course of nine months with maple syrup. The only thing Sam noticed was that his hands constantly smelled like pancakes. 

So yeah, totally oblivious. 

Unfortunately for Dean, Sam would have to be clinically dead not to notice the weird tension between him and Cas, and put two and two together and come up with four tangled legs.

"Thank you, Castiel," Charlie says shrewdly, eyes darting suspiciously between the two of them as she takes a sip of her sugary looking cocktail. 

"Yeah," Sam says haltingly, and then adds, almost like it hurts him to be polite, "Thank you."

Things are excruciatingly uncomfortable after that. There’s no reason for the drop-offs and collections to take longer than it takes to… well, drop off or collect, but recently Dean and Cas have managed to make them last a lot longer, without a whole lot of talking involved (except for a little Q&A session post-coital, of course). 

And Cas, contrarian that he is, revels in the stilted awkwardness of it, uses Dean’s desire to keep their fucking a secret from his family as a stick to beat him with, ratcheting up the tension by touching Dean whenever Sam looks in their direction, just little points of connection that if they were friends probably wouldn’t be an issue.

Problem is, they’re decidedly _ not  _ friends and Sam knows this. 

However, Dean manages to hold his own in more (or less) subtle ways, knocking his knee against Cas’ under the table, and at one point, scooting his chair closer under the pretense of trying to hear what Charlie’s saying over the extremely quiet music, wedging his thigh right up against Cas’, then sliding his hand into Cas’ lap, pressing the heel of his palm down against the bulge in Cas’ pants, before snatching it back again. 

It’s fucking ridiculous, is what it is. Two grown men, one of who has most likely kneecapped someone in the not-too-distant past, acting like teenagers, all hormones and stupid decisions, but Dean perversely enjoys the push and pull of it, the fiery challenge behind blue eyes. 

It’s the same energy Dean suspects they’ve always had, but it seems to manifest as this crazy sexual tension, complete with a strong urge to get one up on each other, to push each other’s buttons until there’s nothing left but to fuck it out. And now that they actually are fucking? Yeah, if anything, it’s just made the situation worse.

Of course, the unfortunate side effect of all this touching is that by the time Cas has decided that he’s had enough of  _ metaphorically _ fucking with him, Dean’s wound tighter than a two-dollar watch, and he’s openly shooting Castiel dirty looks (not of the god-I-want-to-fuck-you variety, more of the god-I-want-to-kill-you-and-then-bring-you-back-to-life-so-I-can-fuck-you variety). With a sigh, like Dean’s the biggest pain in his ass (which Dean knows isn’t true; he and one of Cas’ henchmen, Balthazar, are in strong competition for this title apparently), Cas drains his drink and gets to his feet. 

Sam and Charlie are discussing how to get home from here when Castiel leans down into Dean’s space, hand braced on the back of his chair, voice pitched at just the right level to fuck with Dean some more, bourbon drenched and sex-deep, “I suppose you think you’re funny.”

Dean could point out that Cas started this shit or that he’s just as in desperate need of a quick blow job in the bathroom right now, but instead, he grins casually at him, smarts, “Oh, I think I’m adorable.”

Castiel bites his lower lip and nods, more to himself than Dean. With a wry smile, he straightens up, uses his boot to nudge a bag which should have around thirty thousand dollars in it towards Dean, and collects the bag that Sam hands off to him.

“I’ll see you around, Dean,” and then he’s disappearing into the crowd of hipsters, bag hoisted over his shoulder, back muscles flexing with the weight of it, and Dean absolutely, resolutely does not watch him walk away. 

Sam doesn’t retake his seat, simply stays standing, glaring down at Dean with something Dean likes to refer to as his bitchface. “Outside. Now, Dean.”

Oh  _ aces _ , this should be fun. 

  
  


***

It’s dark by the time they leave and just starting to drizzle. Dean pulls at the collar of his leather jacket like it’ll protect him from either the rain or the conversation he’s about to have.

Three…

Two…

One...

“When precisely were you going to tell me that you’re fucking a goddamned gangster Dean?” Sam yells before the door’s even closed on the hipster-gangbanger convention and Dean inwardly winces. 

_ Never, preferably. _

“Would you like to say that a little louder, Sammy? I don’t think there are people in Kansas City that heard you!” Dean moves away from the heavy door with a tight apologetic smile-grimace, as an older suit with gray hair tries to get past them hovering in the way. 

“Jesus H Christ Dean, what were you thinking?” 

"Probably about that gangster dick." Charlie snorts, and she’s  _ completely _ correct. "How was it? I can't believe you kept this from me, I'm gonna need all of the deets."

"No!" Sam blurts, "For the love of God, no details."

' _ Tell me later,' _ Charlie mouths.

"Dean," Sam tries again. "What the actual fuck are you doing?"

"Listening to you telling me how to live my life, apparently." Dean huffs, tugs the strap of the bag back up his shoulder, "I'm not sure how it's any of your business."

Sam recalibrates, sensing - quite rightly - that he’s not going to get anywhere with force, “We’re just worried about you, man. You’re home even less than you used to be and you just seem--”

“What?” Dean asks, perhaps a bit too sharply. 

“I dunno,” Sam hedges, sending a sideways glance at Charlie, who returns it. “Just--”

“No,” Dean interrupts, “What the fuck was that?” He gestures between them both, “That little  _ look _ you both shared, what the hell was it?”

Charlie steps forward, makes an attempt to reach out to Dean, but he pulls his arm away before she can, childlike and defensive, “It’s cool, Dean. We totally get it, the dude is scorching…”

“... _ But... _ ”

“But he’s a criminal,” Sam interjects, “A pretty serious one too. Getting involved seems like it’s gonna end super badly. Probably for all of us.”

It’s impressive how Sam says it without an ounce of self-awareness, clearly having forgotten that he just handed the aforementioned criminal a big bag of laundered money. 

You know what people who do illegal shit like that and associate with criminals are called? Yeahhhh.

Ignoring Sam and his sudden-onset cognitive impairment, Dean turns to Charlie, his only ally, “You encouraged me! You were the one who told me that he wanted to butter my toast or whatever!”

Sam visibly cringes all over again, which is the only thing Dean can hold onto at the moment.

“Yeah, I did,” Charlie concedes, “Because after what Benny did to you? Man, I wanted you to get some good dick, and then sex-on-legs Castiel shows up all hot for you…” She trails off, eyes lowered, “I thought you’d fuck each other, get it out of your systems, but that in there?” She shakes her head, blows out a breath, “Man, that is so much more.”

“It’s risky as fuck, Dean,” Sam adds, brow creased with worry, hair starting to rat-tail with the steadily worsening rainfall.

They’re talking to him as if he doesn’t already know all this, as if it hadn’t occurred to him, as if he doesn’t know how dangerous Cas is,  _ who _ Cas is - hell if that ain’t half the goddamn point - “I don’t know what to say to either of you, other than it’s  _ none of your business _ . I got us free of all charges, we're making money like never before and you're giving me shit about fucking the guy?"

Though whether it’s just about the fucking is anyone’s guess, including Dean’s.

“Maybe it’s time to stop with all the laundering and drugs?” Sam says in a way that suggests to Dean it’s not the first time he’s voiced this particular concern, it’s just the first time Dean’s hearing it. “We’ve got everything we needed, yeah?”

Because of course it’s that easy.

Maybe it is for them.

“Yeah,” Dean says a heartbeat later, “You guys got what you wanted. So fuck me, right?”

“No!” Charlie and Sam respond in unison. 

But all Dean hears, is _ ‘yeah fuck you, Dean.’ _

Teeth chattering from both the rain and the cold disappointment settling in his chest, he grits out, “You know what? You guys do what you want. I’m gonna keep on keepin’ on.” And then he’s turning his back on his brother and best friend, leaving them in the parking lot staring after him. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your awesome comments; they're all gratefully received and equally loved!
> 
> So this chapter starts off wholesome, but plummets into depravity pretty rapidly! Depending on how sympathetic you are to Benny, you might find that Dean’s a bit of a douche in this chapter. Sorry, I guess? (I actually proper love canon Benny and I refuse to believe that in all the time Dean and he were together in purgatory, they never got busy down in the dirt).
> 
> Also, porn!
> 
> (If anyone’s interested, the song playing in the bar is _Du riechst so gut (You smell so good)_ by Rammstein).

Dean’s kind of a dick. He knows this, has embraced it, has interwoven it with key parts of his personality so that it comes across as a charming and panty-dropping quirk rather than an outward display of boorishness and toxic masculinity (at least for the most part). He’s loyal to a fucking fault and will always do anything he can for those he cares about, even if it means him going without. 

All in all, he’s not a total shitbag human being. 

Which is why when he’s woken up the next morning by a kick to the face, he’s a little put out. 

Sure, it’s not the worst wake-up call he’s ever had, but it’s certainly far from the best. And he’s pretty certain that - unlike the water that Bobby threw down the back of his shirt last year - he doesn’t really deserve it. 

On top of all that, it hurts like a motherfucker.

“Ohhh, Jesus.” He groans, rolling over onto his side, bringing his hands up to his face, curving protectively around his nose.

The jarring rock and roll of the bed that Dean hadn’t fully registered until now, judders to a stop, “Sorry dad!” 

_ Huh? _

Dean blearily opens his eyes and for a split second, everything’s back to normal. Ben’s concerned face is peering down at him, and in his periphery he can see Benny just off to the side holding a colorfully decorated cake, soft smile on his handsome face. 

“Happy birthday, che--Dean,” Benny says, smile faltering for just a second. He recovers quickly though, teases, “Couldn’t fit all the candles on the cake this year.”

Ass.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks Benny,” Dean grumbles, as he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He lifts his hand to his nose again, checks his fingers for blood. Thankfully there’s nothing. He turns his head, peripheral vision catching sight of Ben behind him, still standing on the bed in one of Dean’s old AC/DC shirts, and his own Avengers pajama bottoms, “Aren’t you a little too old to be using me as a moonbounce, Benjamin?” 

“Never too old for that!” Ben laughs, squealing as Dean sweeps his legs out from under him and tackles him onto the bed, legs kicking and arms flailing. 

“Woah, watch the cake!” Benny yelps as an errant foot goes wide and nearly knocks it out of his hands.

  
  


***

Dean leans against the kitchen counter, mug of freshly brewed coffee in hand, watching Ben wolf down the home-cooked breakfast that Benny must have spent hours slaving over in the kitchen. It’s apparent that he’s cleaned up too, because the granite surfaces are sparkling clean. Certainly a lot cleaner than when Dean half-asses it.

Benny sidles up to him, bumps Dean’s shoulder with his slightly wider one. He smells good, comforting and masculine, and it would be so _ easy  _ to turn into all that muscular warmth and just forget that the last five months have happened. Instead, Dean manages a faint smile and says, “Thanks for this morning.” 

He means it most sincerely. After yesterday’s debacle at Cas’ bar, he’s just thankful for some semblance of normality, even if it has to come from someone who should be his least favorite person right now. Though Sam’s definitely coming close to stealing the crown there.

“Of course,” Benny responds like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “You want me to take him to school for you today?”

Dean’s first instinct is to ask what Benny’s angle is. Nobody’s this nice without wanting something in return or unless they’re feeling guilty about something, but for once Dean decides to take the gesture at face value, closing his eyes and relishing the idea of not having to fight some stuck up bitches in the school drop-off lane when he takes a second too long to say goodbye to his kid, “That would be the best birthday present ever. Thank you.”

“The best birthday present ever,  _ really _ ?” Benny drawls, mischievous tone in his voice, and Dean knows  _ exactly  _ what he’s thinking. 

Yeah okay, that’s probably fair.

“Okay, second best.” Dean amends, takes a sip of his coffee. So good.

Benny flashes him a wicked grin, “Have you got plans for later?”

_ Oh. And there’s the catch. Shoulda trusted your gut, Winchester. _

Dean freezes, unsure on how to keep making it clear that he’s not interested without hiring a sky-writer or a marching band, “Benny--”

“No, no.” Benny says immediately, angles his body into Dean’s, but thankfully still maintains a respectable distance, “Nothin’ like that, I just wondered if you wanted some company for your birthday or whatever. We could watch some movies, or get a couple of drinks. Nothing heavy, I promise. Just friends. Unless you’re doing something with your brother or Charlie?”

_Just friends._

Dean’s mind spools back over their conversation last night. Yeah, no, he’s definitely not doing anything with them, so he finds himself shrugging and saying, “Sure. Drinks sound good. As long as I get to pick the place.”

He’s already planning for his next Cas fix. 

Benny’s smile is blinding, and guilt slices through Dean, acute and agonizing, “Of course, I’ll come get you at seven?” At Dean’s mute nod, he turns to Ben, “Come on kiddo, let’s give your dad some peace. I’ll get you to school. I even made you some lunch.”

“Awesome!” Ben shouts and Dean tries not to be jealous of his enthusiasm for Benny’s lunch versus his less-than-eager reaction to Dean’s, but then Dean’s lunches are pretty lame by comparison. How can a bit of cheese slapped between some bread compare with fancy turkey pinwheels?

As a matter of fact, Dean’s half tempted to ask Benny to make him a packed lunch as well. But that would be too domestic and fucked up, and Dean _ cannot  _ backslide on this, he can’t. He’d never forgive himself.

“See you tonight,” Benny calls as he steers Ben out of the dining room.

Plus,  _ Cas. _

“Later,” Dean replies as he snatches up a piece of bacon. After all the effort Benny went to, it’d be rude not to really. He chews on it slowly, savoring the taste. 

_ Jesus that’s delicious. _

Goddammit. 

  
  


*** 

  
  


The place is absolutely rammed tonight. Dean can barely move through the crush of bodies. Luckily, he and Benny are just arriving as another couple is leaving, so Dean snags their high table, narrowly beating a man who's all sharp elbows and determination. Victorious, he slides gingerly onto the bar chair and scans the sea of faces, looking for one in particular. Not seeing it, he turns back to Benny, flashes him a smile, tries not to let his disappointment show.

“This place is pretty hip and happenin’,” Benny grins, leaning over the small circular table to make himself heard over the music, which is something loud and fast that Dean doesn’t recognize, but doesn’t entirely hate.

“You sound exactly your age,” Dean teases, “I don’t think anyone under the age of thirty uses either ‘hip’ or ‘happening’ anymore.”

It’s then that someone in Dean’s line of sight about ten feet away laughs and moves towards their companion, creating a small gap in the crowd and Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

_ Cas.  _

He’s sitting at the busy bar, about twenty people and five tables away, drink in hand, smiling easily at someone that Dean can’t quite make out, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a hot spike of jealousy over whoever put that smile on Cas’ face.

There's something about Cas in this place; something easier and less aloof. He's marginally less terrifying here,  just a little bit softer around the edges. 

Dean’s kinda counting on it tonight.

He watches for as long as he can without drawing either Cas' attention, or Benny's.

Luckily, Benny's focus is on getting them some service as he strains to see if there's anyone bringing drinks to a table.

"There's no table service in here," Dean murmurs, eyes finally catching and holding on a particular pair of blue ones. Surprise flits across Cas’ stupidly attractive features for just a second, before there’s the delicious molten heat, promising wicked-hot things, that Dean has grown intimately accustomed to in the last couple of weeks.

Perhaps it’s kind of a dick move, to go out with Benny knowing how much it means to him, versus how little it means to Dean, but--

_ Nope _ .

That's it. Dean concedes it's probably a dick move, but he's sick of living his life for other people. Worrying about hurting feelings when nobody gives a shit about his. He was a faithful husband to Benny, and Benny fucked everyone within a five-mile radius and gambled away their mortgage payments. He’s worked his ass off to keep Sammy and Charlie happy and out of jail, and yet he’s getting criticized for it. Fuck that noise, he’s allowed to have this. 

Whenever he starts to feel sorry for his ex (which is surprisingly often actually) Dean just reminds himself that this is all technically Benny's fault in the first place. 

Yep, it’s Benny’s fault that Dean met Cas.

Ironic, really.

“I’ll go to the bar then,” Benny says climbing down off his seat, “Seein' as it’s your birthday and all. What do you want?”

Dean reluctantly breaks eye contact with Cas to look at Benny, “Scotch on the rocks, please.”

Benny makes a face. “I didn’t know you drank scotch.”

There’s not a lot Dean can really say to that, so he just smiles and shrugs, “When in Rome.” 

Or something.

Benny disappears - thankfully in the opposite direction to where Cas is sitting - and Dean resumes his staring. Castiel has resumed talking to his companion, but he keeps sneaking heated glances at Dean and it has him half hard in his jeans. 

As do most things that Cas does.

Since meeting Cas he's popping more spontaneous wood than a teenager, and it’s kinda exhausting, but also exhilarating. 

A body moves right in Dean’s line of sight and Dean sighs, tries to subtly see around them but it’s no use; his view of Cas is well and truly blocked.

On the table, Dean’s phone buzzes. 

_ CAS: ‘Looking for someone?’ _

Dean thinks about typing out a reply, but then Benny’s returning with the drinks, so he just locks his phone and slides it into his pocket. “You got served quickly?" The bar is still packed, probably at least fifteen or twenty people up and down, waiting to be served and there's no way that Benny was next.

“Yeah,” Benny grins, inclining his head close to Dean’s so that he can be heard, “And I think they undercharged me or made a mistake or somethin’ - I gave them a ten, but they gave me a ten back in change. I was gonna say something, but then the bartender was already servin' someone else."

“Weird,” Dean says, though it's not actually weird at all, and the crowd opens up again and Castiel tilts his glass in Dean’s direction.

_ Goddammit, Cas. _

The song changes over and it’s some rock cover of an eighties song. 

“Well, happy birthday cher.” Benny says, clinking his bottleneck against Dean's tumbler. “Shit-- Dean. Sorry.”

Dean takes pity on him, manages a wan smile, “It’s okay man. Gonna take a bit of getting used to, don’t worry.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually,” Benny says and Dean throws his scotch back in one go, and Benny plows on, "It’s been five months and I know that things are still…"

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Dean slides it out, checks the screen.

_ CAS: ‘Why are you here?’ _

Dean slides to unlock, texts back: ‘ _ Why indeed. It’s my birthday.’ _

"...but I'm a changed man, Dean. I swear I'll--"

“I’m going to get a drink,” Dean announces partway through Benny’s speech. “Hold that thought.”

He slips off the stool and pushes his way to the bar. As soon as the bartender notices him, he finishes up serving another patron and makes a beeline for Dean, straight past at least fifteen hands holding out bills.

Damn it’s good to be King. Or at least fucking him. 

Oooh, does that make Dean the Queen? Ben’s been wanting a dog for ages, maybe it’s time they got a couple of Corgis. 

“What would you like, Mr. Winchester?" The bartender leans towards Dean in his semi-smart attire, forearms on the bar, "On the house.”

Well. In that case.

“Uhh, I’ll have three double shots of vodka, a scotch on the rocks, and whatever that dude--” he points to Benny sitting at the table, watching, “--ordered about five minutes ago.”

“Sure thing.”

The bartender busies himself with Dean’s order and Dean deliberately doesn’t look into the glare that Cas is burning into the side of his face from the other end of the bar. Instead, he angles himself toward a blond woman in a strappy red dress, sugary sweetness of her perfume. She huffs, impatient, clearly unimpressed at being made to wait. Dean flashes her the Winchester panty-dropper smile (Sam’s comes with dimples and puppy-dog eyes, Dean’s is slightly edgier, promising dirty-wrong things), and she immediately melts under it (she’s only human after all), annoyance at Dean jumping the queue all but forgotten.

_ Still got it. _

The bartender fixes the shots first, placing three glasses on a bar mat in front of Dean. He pours them out and when he’s barely even finished with the first one, Dean’s leaning forward just enough that Cas can see him, lifting the shot glass in acknowledgment, before  tilting his head back and downing it. 

Dean’s phone buzzes a moment later when he’s on his second shot. 

_ CAS: ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’  _

He finishes the third one, stacking the glasses inside one another, thanks the bartender, winks at the blond in the red dress, and weaves his way back to their table with a bottle of some generic beer for Benny and Dean’s scotch. 

“Hey Benny,” he grins, already a tiny bit buzzed, the alcohol warming his blood nicely. He places the drinks on the table, retakes his seat, “Continue with what you were saying before I so rudely left to get more drinks.”

Cas is still watching him. It makes Dean feel powerful, desired. Holding Cas’ attention is worth its weight in prescription drugs and Dean basks in it. 

“O-okay,” Benny says uncertainly, “I was just sayin' that I know you’re still pissed at me and I get it. But I am a better man now, I swear, or at least I’m tryin’--"

"Yeah?" Dean asks, eye on Cas just over Benny's shoulder.

"I am Dean, and this morning just reminded me of everything I lost--"

"You didn't lose it, Benny." Dean says as carefully as he can when the combination of alcohol in his veins and the weight of Cas' intensity is making him squirm, turned on and reckless with it, "You threw it away, man."

Benny winces. "I know and I want to do better, I really do. I just--"

Castiel’s loaded stare is seriously getting to him now, and Dean figures that’s about all the foreplay they need. His skin feels too tight and hot, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck. 

Yeah, he's just about drunk enough for this.

He chugs his scotch, bangs the empty glass on the table between him and Benny. As he stands, the intro for some industrial metal song starts up on the speakers, all chugging guitars and deep bass.

“Will you excuse me?” He says to Benny, not waiting for a response, and heads straight for the bathroom. 

He pushes his way through the throng of people, heart pounding and mouth dry. Luckily this place has several single-occupancy bathrooms, at least one of which is open when Dean tries the handle. He slips inside and leaves the door ajar. 

He stands in front of the wall-sized mirror, hands gripping the porcelain sink as he waits, hopefully for Castiel to have gotten the message. The metal song is still playing in the main bar area and the singer’s voice is a booming baritone that reverberates through Dean’s bones, setting his nerves alight, heart rate tethered to the beat of the music.

This is probably the least classy thing he’s done in a while (coming from the man who once fingered a girl to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch; the 90s has a  _ lot  _ to answer for) and that really shouldn’t be turning him on as much as it is (the idea of getting railed by Cas in a bathroom, not the Marky Mark thing. Though if Cas wanted to reenact the shirtless parts of the Good Vibrations video, then Dean’s  _ down _ ). 

He’s shaky with anticipation, cheeks flushed with alcohol and lust. 

A stuttered heartbeat later, Castiel slinks in behind him, and Dean watches in the mirror as he turns the lock with a click that sounds abruptly loud against the muffled bass outside. Cas leans his weight against the door, hands behind his back, like if they’re free, they’re gonna be on Dean.

Neither of them says anything. Not verbally at least. 

Their eyes meet in the mirror and Dean’s immediately lost in the unadulterated want he sees reflected back at him, searing and new and all for him.

_ Fuck. _

It’s the push-pull of it; the challenge, but also the inevitability. There’s something so fucking base about whatever  _ this  _ is, that Dean can’t think straight around Cas, not sure he’s ever been able to really. 

Dean begins to undo his belt, yanking the leather free. The sound of the buckle is loud in the relative silence, punctuated only by their combined heavy breathing, chests rising and falling in near-tandem, louder than the muted music playing in the bar. Heat high on his cheekbones and still not taking his eyes off of Cas, Dean pushes his boxers down around his thighs along with his jeans, leaving his shirttail skimming the swell of his bare ass, red rag to a bull.

He sees it, the precise moment Castiel's control snaps, and then he's collapsing the distance between them in no time at all and skimming his broad palm up Dean's thigh, hot like burning, heat branding Dean's skin. His hand moves up further under the shirttail, palming the flesh of Dean's ass and Dean arches into it, needing those strong, lethal hands on his body.

Cas' breath is hot on Dean's neck, mouth pressed to his pulse, face all sharp angles and shadows that stand out in stark relief under the soft light. Dean's dick twitches, painfully hard, pinioned between Castiel and the sink.

“Touch yourself for me,” Cas exhales the command against Dean’s skin, flattens his tongue over the words. 

_ “God,” _ Dean manages, breathless with how badly he wants this, throb of his dick in time with his heartbeat. He takes his cock in hand, strokes himself roughly from base to tip, squeezing out a pearly drop of precome. “Fuck me, Cas.”

Not wasting any time, Castiel's palms ease Dean's cheeks apart, gathering the length of Dean’s shirt up in his left hand, exposing Dean's lube-slick hole to the cool air and Dean can't stop the shiver that runs through his body as he tries his best to widen his stance, trapped as he is by his pants around his thighs.

In the mirror he sees Cas’ gaze drop to where he’s holding Dean open, keeping him displayed and on edge, and Dean shoves his ass out just a little bit more, canting his hips in invitation, slutty and eager to get this show on the road. Castiel's eyes darken even further in the low light, and then he's back to staring at Dean with a raw hunger that promises absolute ruination and Dean can’t  _ wait _ .

"You--"

"Yeah," Dean says and one of Castiel's hands leaves his ass cheek in favor of dragging his finger up Dean's perineum. He plays at Dean’s entrance, smoothing the slick around and pressing at the rim, dipping just the tip of his finger in, lube easing the way.

"Fuck.” Castiel murmurs and Dean can’t help but agree, flushed cockhead disappearing in his fist on every upstroke.

“Did you think about this?" Castiel asks, distracted, as he watches his finger, then two, shove in and out, cling and stretch of Dean’s body, and Dean grunts low in his throat.

"Yeah," He answers honestly, a time-delayed echo of himself, head dipping down between his shoulders, teeth knawing on his lip, as Castiel strokes in and out of him and it’s so  _ fucking good _ , the way those deft, capable fingers feel inside him, but he needs so much more.

There’s never not a time when he’s thinking about this, dreaming about getting Cas’ dick inside him, but dammit, it’s his birthday  _ and he can get fucked if he wants to.  _ So he’d opened himself on his own fingers before Benny picked him up, imagining this precise scenario, lube dribbling down his hand and wrist, sweat pricking at his temples, muscles tightening into knots, heart hammering against his ribcage, come coating the webbing of his fingers.

So  _ yeah _ , Dean’s thought about this. Planned it down to the last detail. He squeezes his cock at the base, already on the verge of orgasm before Cas even gets in him.

Castiel swears harshly under his breath, something in another language that Dean doesn't understand, but entirely gets the sentiment of. He removes his fingers and Dean tries not to whine at the loss, feeling empty, clenching around nothing _ ,  _ desperate for  _ Cascascascas.  _ The sound of Castiel’s zipper is loud in the relative silence and then Cas’s cock is sliding up the cleft of his ass, rubbing slick, a quick tease before he’s pressed up against the furled skin of Dean’s hole, hot and hard and bare. 

There's a split second of panic, "No condom?" before Castiel sinks in slowly, carving out a space inside Dean's body, inch by torturous inch, and Dean's hands fly to the corners of the counter, bleeding white from the pressure of his grip, every muscle wound tight with anticipation, gasping as Cas shoves in, splitting him wide, throbbing heat of his cock just the right side of pain. Cas slides his hands over the smooth curve of Dean’s ass, fingertips pressing bruises into the flesh there, holding Dean still as he slides in, more and more of him until Dean’s finally full.

"I need to feel this, feel you," Castiel murmurs behind him, voice thick and gravel rough, "No condom."

It’s probably the latest lousy call in a long storied history of lousy calls, but Dean's in no position to argue, has nowhere to go, trapped between the heat of Castiel's hard body and the cool smoothness of the counter, so he just groans out a rough approximation of consent and tilts his hips up further, bending a little at the waist, allowing Cas to gain another half-inch, to push in further, impossibly deep, muscles in Dean’s thighs clenching and unclenching. 

“God, Cas.” Dean manages, voice cracking in the middle. 

“ _ Fuck. _ ” Cas’ sounds as wrecked as Dean feels, and he gives Dean an arrhythmic heartbeat, two, before he’s before drawing back, head of his cock catching on Dean’s stretched rim, until Cas is barely inside, and Dean whines lowly in his throat, closes his eyes and braces himself against Castiel shoving the hard length of his cock back in, fucking the impression of himself permanently into Dean’s body. 

The soft, expensive material of Cas’s pants is a stark contrast to the hard, sharp slap of skin on skin and Dean can imagine how he looks right now, hobbled by his jeans around his thighs, making the fit even tighter for Cas’ cock, ass up and stinging red from Cas’ brutal thrusts, as they gain pace and force. 

"Open your eyes, Dean. I need you to see this, see who you really are.”

Dean does as he’s told and good  _ God-fucking-damn.  _

They're obscenely gorgeous together.

Dean knows what he looks like, what kind of attention he attracts, but this…fuck, he barely even recognizes himself right now. His mouth is red and puffy and swollen, lips bitten raw and parted on words that aren’t coming, eyes glassy and virtually black in the dim light of the bathroom, and his dick is curved upward, slut-red, slapping against the plane of his stomach with every sharp thrust of Cas’ hips. His shirt is rucked all the way up to his chest where one of Cas' long-fingered palms is splayed, the other gripped tight on Dean’s hip, digging through to the bone, heat bleeding through his skin, holding him still, like Dean could get away even if he wanted to, Cas’ muscles bunching in his arms as he fucks Dean hard and deep, possessive strength hauling their bodies together.

Behind him, Cas thankfully looks about as devastated as Dean, those fucking delicious hipbones smacking into the meat of Dean's ass with every core-deep drive inside, splitting Dean open on his thick cock, buried in him to his balls, power and strength written into every line of his body, his eyes predatory and dangerously intent on Dean, all that attention concentrated solely on him, syrupy thick and so fucking  _ good _ . 

"Cas--" Dean moans, one hand releasing its death grip on the counter and reaching back to fist in Cas' hair, "Kiss me, fucker."

The angle is a bit too awkward to be anything other than the sharing of hitching breaths, resulting in a kiss that’s nasty in just the right way; mouths open, all spit and tongue, but it’s perfect and wild, like everything with Cas is, and Cas really begins to give it to him, each vicious thrust growing more and more violent, breath catching in Dean’s chest, Cas fucking these little  _ uh uh uh  _ noises out of his throat, cock shoving right up against his prostate time and again.

“He think you’re here with him,  _ for him _ ?” Cas demands breathlessly against Dean’s swollen mouth, heated, savage grind of his pelvis, “He think that you’re his?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Cas’ possessive line of questioning has Dean whimpering with the sheer hotness of it, and suddenly, without warning, Cas is shoving him down, forcing him to fold almost completely at the waist, forearms awkwardly splayed on the counter, either side of the sink, angle damn near too much for Dean to bear as Cas pins him down with one of his large palms between Dean’s shoulder blades, the other hand mauling bruises into Dean’s hip, keeping him there, face right up against the mirror, so close that he’s fogging it up with every uneven breath fucked from his lungs. 

He can’t get enough purchase to do much other than lie there and take it, heavy length of Cas’ dick in his ass, and he’s shuddering and panting, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes with how fucking  _ good _ it feels. He struggles to breathe around the sensation of Cas’ cock pulling him inside out, whole body flushing with the knowledge that he’s going to have to go back out there and look his husband in the eye, knowing he’s just been fucked to within an inch of his life in the bathroom by the most dangerous man he’s ever known.

It’s that thought that has him coming in the end; the sheer wrongness of what he’s doing here, going ass up for a man who’s killed people, a man who drives Dean absolutely crazy, a man who fucks Dean so good, who gives a shit what alcohol Dean drinks --

“ _ Cas.  _ Gonna--” Pants and boxers around his thighs, held up by the slight outward curve of his legs, ass in the air, Dean comes without a hand on his cock, whole body shuddering and pulsing, riding that raw-edge of pleasure, clenching around Castiel, balls drawn up tight, as he spurts over the counter, sink, and his own stomach, hot and messy and sticky.

_ Holy fuck. _

Cas’ thrusts abruptly grow uneven, rough and jagged, snarling Dean’s name as he presses in deep, fucking his way through Dean’s orgasm in a tight grind, mindlessly seeking release in Dean’s lax body, “ _Fuck_.” Dean’s still riding high, barely coherent when Cas’s hips suddenly stutter and still, holding there, as he comes, creaming Dean’s insides, flooding him with his load; so much of it that it leaks as Cas slips his softening cock out of Dean’s puffy hole, trickling down his perineum, catching in the soft hairs of the inside of his thigh.

Dean flicks his gaze up in the mirror and something swoops in his stomach when he sees Cas staring down at the intimate place where their bodies were just joined, watching his come spill out onto Dean’s skin.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Dean quips, breathless and fucked out, aiming to reclaim his equilibrium just a little bit in the aftermath of  _ the _ fuck of his life. 

Yeah, he’s definitely ticking that one off his bucket list.

“If I hadn’t left my phone at the bar, I would,” Cas mutters, eyes ruinous and transfixed.

Dean’s dick twitches. Fuck.

He pushes himself up on shaky forearms, reaches for the paper towel dispenser located on the cornering wall next to the mirror, wanting to clean himself as soon as he can stand up, but is stopped by Cas’ hand around his wrist. “Leave it.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

Possessive mother(father)fucker. 

  
  


***

Cas exits the bathroom a few minutes before Dean, leaving him with a slow passionate kiss that has Dean’s toes curling, and his dick chubbing all over again. 

“I’ll see you soon, Dean.” And then he’s gone, allowing Dean to collect what’s left of his sanity - which at this point isn’t much, admittedly. 

Dean uses the paper towels to clean up his stomach and the sink as best he can, but as per Cas’ instructions, leaves the whole other mess alone, even though it’s already super uncomfortable, tacky and catching on his oversensitized skin with every move. He tosses the towels into the bin under the counter, stares at himself in the mirror. 

His cheeks are flushed, his hair screams ‘I just got fucked’, his eyes are shiny and dark, his hands are still shaking, and his legs are even more bow-legged than usual. 

Yeah, there’s no way that he doesn’t look like he just got laid.

He splashes some water on his face, waits to see if the drops that warm on his overheated skin reveal anything new, anything different. So maybe he can see what Cas sees. He’s expecting some grand change, but there’s nothing. Just the same features; green eyes, freckles, gold-spun eyelashes, full mouth, strong jaw. There’s nothing outwardly that betrays him, but he feels something different inside (and it’s not just the imprint of Cas’ magnificent dick), something intrinsic that’s broken loose and fallen away. 

Perhaps he should be scared of this version of himself. The one that is a willing participant in all this, the one that doesn’t actually care about what the fuck he’s doing, the one who isn’t trembling in Cas’ presence anymore.

He’s not scared though. He feels free. For the first time in his adult life. It’s kinda amazing.

And addictive as fuck.

His phone buzzes just as he’s slipping back into the bar, clothes in place once more, hair tamed as best he can, Cas’ come drying on his inner thigh. 

_ CAS: ‘Happy Birthday, Dean.’  _

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was expecting so much more sympathy for Benny in the last chapter; but man, you guys are brutal and I love it! Things are not gonna get better for him, so buckle up y’all, shit’s about to get real!!
> 
> The chapter after this was originally gonna be posted as one, but a _lot_ happens and it's kinda long so I'll be splitting it in two. That means this coming week, I'll be posting Tuesday, Thursday, and then the final chapter on Sunday. The final chapter count will be 14. 
> 
> Warning for mentions of gambling addiction in this chapter.
> 
> And finally, stay safe everyone! <3

Since Dean’s birthday a few weeks back, he's been ignoring Benny's calls. It’s yet another dick move, but if this entire experience has taught him anything, it’s to embrace the dick. Still, he feels mildly guilty about what he did, feels guilty for getting off on it, knowing Benny was sitting out there waiting whilst Dean was getting fucked to within an inch of his sanity by Cas. So he's been doing what he does best: Avoiding The Situation. 

It seems like he's avoiding a lot of people lately. He's barely talking to his brother or Charlie since Dean’s dramatic (and totally warranted) exit; Bobby keeps sending him furtive looks from under the hood of the Porsche he's working on, like he  _ knows _ something; and Lisa's pissed at him for what she sees as letting Benny back into his life (thanks to Ben tattletaling on him, little snitch - just like his sasquatch uncle), rather than what it actually was, which was throwing Benny a bone to keep him working with Dean instead of against him.

_ Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that _ .

Okay, so it’s complicated.

Therefore it's a surprise when his phone rings late on a Thursday night with a number that Dean doesn't recognize. He’s wary about picking up, but it could be Cas on a burner, so  _ of course  _ he answers. 

"Hello?"

There's a crackle over the line, some rustling, a noise that sounds like a pained whimper and then Benny's voice is saying, scratchy and urgent, "Dean, get down to the restaurant as fast as you can. It's an emergency." Then the phone line goes dead. 

Well, this isn’t going to be anything good, is it.

  
  


***

The problem with burying your head in the sand is that the world carries right on going without you, people keep doing stupid shit beyond your little sandbox of blissful ignorance, and nothing makes Dean more acutely aware of this than stepping into Benny's Bistro approximately half an hour after his call. 

_ Oh, shit. _

The very first thing Dean notices, like his eyes can't help but be drawn to him, is Cas. He’s standing sideways on to Dean, under a still swinging light fitting with a destroyed bulb, Louisville Slugger over one shoulder, haphazard light casting shadows across the devastating cut of his cheekbone, glass shards glittering all around him. He’s wearing what has just been catapulted up to Dean’s absolutely favorite outfit of all time; skinny gray tie over a tight black shirt, which is tucked into expensive-looking black dress pants. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing all that glorious ink and  _ fuck. _

Yep, Dean’s a goner. 

He looks like the best-worst thing Dean’s ever seen; fucking magnificent and absolutely lethal, and Dean has a split second to appreciate it, before he reluctantly tears his eyes away to sweep over the rest of the place, destroyed as it is; broken glass, liquor bottles smashed, a strong scent of alcohol permeating the air. 

And oh,  _ shit. _ Benny’s securely tied to one of the restaurant chairs, next to the bar, beaten and bloody, bound with what looks like blue fishing rope. His breathing is labored and his wrists are rubbed raw from where he's been trying to get free. Michael stands over him, gun pressed to his temple. Benny's eyes are panicked and bloodshot when he sees Dean in the doorway. 

Dean did not sign on for this shit. 

From his position near the door, it’s only Benny that can catch sight of him, so he stands stock still and waits with bated breath as Castiel swings the bat in a vertical arc, all brute strength and terrifying fury, bringing it down through the glass-topped servers station, smashing it to pieces, splintering the wood, and sending the reservation book spinning across the concrete floor. 

Dean continues watching mutely as Castiel makes his way over to Benny, kicking debris out of his path, bat held in his hand like it’s an extension of himself, effortless and strikingly proficient.

As with all things Cas, it’s disturbingly hot.

“Oh,” Castiel suddenly says, distracted by something in the kitchen off to his right. He looks through the shelves of the stainless steel kitchen station, apparently talking to someone in there. Dean’s guess is Gabriel.

Cas turns to Benny, “That backsplash is exquisite. What is it made out of, marble?”

_ What. _

Before Benny can begin to formulate an answer, Castiel is continuing, attention flitting between the kitchen and his befuddled hostage, “Do you ever get any problems with staining back here? Say, if you’re cooking BBQ sauce?”

_Jesus Christ, Castiel._

Apparently struck dumb by the sheer weirdness of the situation, Benny doesn’t say anything, just shifts uncomfortably in his bindings, blood trickling sluggishly from a head wound. 

Dean’s beginning to wonder if he’s fallen asleep at the wheel and is really in a coma right now. Hell, maybe he’s even hoping for it a little bit. 

Castiel tilts his head at Benny with dispassionate eyes and then gives Michael a short nod.

Michael pistol-whips Benny across the face, sending blood and spit flying over the surface of the bar in a fine mist. 

"Stop!" Dean yells, revealing his presence, abruptly terrified of how far this has already gone, how far it has the potential to go, "Cas, fucking stop."

There's a loud crashing in the kitchen, the sound of plates smashing to the floor. 

"Oh, hello Dean," Castiel pants, surprised, like he’s not the one who made sure that Dean attended this dick swinging competition. He's out of breath, chest heaving, face flushed with exertion, eyes bright and excited, and the last time he looked like this was when --

_ Not helpful. _

“What’s going on?” Dean asks carefully, not entirely sure on how to approach this version of Cas. He looks between Castiel and Michael who’s watching Dean with the usual level of suspicion. 

“I was asking your  _ husband  _ about the backsplash over the stove. I’m having my kitchen remodeled and I was curious about the properties of marble.” The heated look that accompanies perhaps the  _ most  _ ridiculous statement Dean’s ever heard invokes a challenge and normally Dean would be rising to it in more ways than one, but--

“It’s fucking marble, yes. One big slab and you have to reseal every couple of months, it’s a pain in the ass.” Dean says through gritted teeth. “Now you know, so maybe you could explain to me what’s  _ really _ going on.”

Castiel’s mouth twitches up into that arrogant, infuriating smirk and Dean isn’t sure whether he wants to punch him or mount him.

Business as usual then.

Something glimmers in and out of Cas’ eyes, reflected in a nearby flickering light, before he turns his attention to Michael. He nods and Michael lowers his gun, calls out to Gabriel who emerges from the kitchen. Together, they leave, but Dean can't imagine that they'll be going far. 

"What the fuck is going on?" Dean demands as soon as the door bumps shut behind them. 

Benny answers first, left eye already beginning to swell itself shut, "This guy, this fucking psychopath--" Castiel growls lowly in his throat, which really only serves the purpose of proving Benny's point and making Dean's dick twitch to life, which is super inappropriate, Dean knows, but apparently he’s just wired that way now, "--just showed up out of nowhere with those two assholes and started breaking shit-- I don't even know--"

“Wait," Castiel interrupts with a slow smile, gaze sliding from Benny to Dean and back again, "You haven’t told him?”

Oh, fuck no. 

There’s a lot of things that Dean hasn’t told Benny, but there’s only one that Smug Asshole Extraordinaire is going to relish in divulging. 

Dean freezes, breath caught in his throat, “Castiel. Don’t.”

Benny looks between them confused and bloody, and once again guilt hits Dean in a sickening wave, “Told me what?” 

Castiel stares Dean down, daring him to do something, to say something, dead language used to communicate what neither of them is saying aloud. Dean’s fists clench uselessly by his sides, and Cas doesn’t miss it, eyes flicking down to catch the movement. Sensing he’s bested Dean, Castiel turns to Benny, smiling the kind of serene smile Dean imagines serial killers do right before they slash someone’s throat and fuck the wound, and says, “We’re partners.”

Dean chokes on his own spit. 

Castiel clarifies, “Business partners of course,” clearly enjoying this far too much and it’s the bar with Sam and Charlie all over again, except this time Dean’s far from a willing participant in his shitshow, “Dean’s my ‘ _ business’ _ partner, so this affects him as much as it does me.”

"You're an asshole," Dean informs him, and he cannot say it emphatically enough to truly cover how deeply he feels it right now. 

"Me?" Castiel looks incredulous and all of six years old - if that six-year-old happens to be Damien Thorn - and points the bat in Benny's direction, "He's the one who's been stealing from me. From  _ us. _ "

Oh, because Dean needs  _ this _ shit.

"What?"

"Yes," Castiel replies, black Chelsea boots crunching, slowly, menacingly over glass, baseball bat casually over his shoulder, looking so damn dangerous that, for the first time in quite a while, Dean almost shrinks away, "Your  _ husband _ \--"

This better not be what Dean suspects it’s about. 

“-- knows what I’m talking about.” He drops down on his haunches in front of Benny. He pushes the end cap of the bat under Benny’s chin, forces him to look in Dean’s direction, "Don’t you, Benny? Tell your  _ beloved _ .”

Yep, it sure is.

"Fuck you." Benny spits and Dean’s not entirely sure who he’s supposed to be pulling for right now, but he feels a small flare of pride at Benny’s eleventh-hour fight. 

Castiel tilts his head, “Not my type, I’m afraid. No, I’m much more into green eyes--”

And here we go.

" _ Cas _ ," Dean warns. But Castiel is apparently past the point of listening, patience evaporated and Dean understands intimately what it feels to be on the receiving end of Cas’ ire. Except Dean was always safe, wasn’t he? For all of Cas’ posturing and threats, he never laid a hand on Dean.

Not any that Dean didn't want anyways.

Castiel keeps his focus on Benny’s face, watching closely for every micro-expression, says, “Since we’re all sharing open secrets, do you want to go first, Dean?” 

_ Cas, you fucking child. _

“Cas--”

Castiel cuts him off, voice granite, “Tell him, Dean. Or I will.”

Dean remains steadfastly silent, teeth grinding. Wondering if there’s a third option that involves Castiel not being a total asshole for once. 

Un-fucking-likely. 

Castiel looks back over his shoulder at Dean, smug and calculated, “Need a quick bathroom break to think about it?”

_ Mother(father)fucker. _

“Yeah, like  _ super _ quick,” Dean deadpans, “Definitely quicker than average, I’d say.”

A hint of a smirk flickers at the edge of Cas’ mouth as they stare each other down again, unstoppable force meeting immovable object, until eventually, Cas says, “No? Okay, I’ll tell.” His attention snaps back to Benny and he leans in towards like he’s about to divulge a secret, voice hushed and low, "You know that little noise he makes  _ right _ before he comes?" Benny's eyes widen, cut to Dean and then back to Cas who smiles with satisfaction at Benny’s realization, "So do I and it’s mine now.”

And that is  _ enough. _

Dean makes a grab for Cas' arm, tries to drag him backward, but Cas merely shakes him off, pushes up to his feet, attention still on Benny, fist tight around the bat, "Cas, what the fuck, stop it!"

"You've been screwin’ him, Dean?” Benny asks incredulously, angry, but also something else that Dean can’t quite pinpoint, “When we--" 

And Dean has to stop him there, “ _ When we _ what, Benny? There is no ‘we’, there is no ‘us’.”

“Your birthday--” Benny starts and oh no, no no no. “I thought we were getting somewhere. I thought--”

To his left, Castiel laughs cruelly. Fucker.

“You thought wrong,” Dean says perhaps a bit harshly, tempers it with, “I’m sorry man. I just don’t -- I can’t.”

Benny just sort of crumples like his strings have been cut, speechless for a moment, then says, “How could you--” and Dean feels utterly wretched until his expression turns cold, “How long, Dean? When we were together? God, all this time you were giving me shit and  _ you _ \--”

Castiel abruptly brings the baseball bat down across Benny’s kneecap with a disgusting, painful-sounding crunch. 

"Cas!" Dean yells, panicked, but it gets lost to Benny's agonized scream, "Just  _ stop _ , please, we can sort this out -- how much does he owe?"

Cas turns to Dean, breathing hard, eyes glittering, hair all fucked up. It's the only occasion outside their sexytime that he's seen Cas not entirely composed, and despite everything - or perhaps in spite of it - it’s fucking majorly with Dean’s concentration, " _ All of it _ .”

Well, shit. 

“You’re gonna need to be more specific, Cas,” Dean says over Benny’s pained whimpers, desperately fighting the urge to beg Cas to let him take Benny to a hospital. “How on earth does he owe  _ all of it _ ?”

Castiel levels him with a look. “The money from this month? He paid us in counterfeit bills -  _ my _ counterfeit bills to be precise. He owes us fifty thousand.”

So Dean had been expecting a couple of grand, maybe. Not the whole amount, and definitely not for the stupid d-bag to have paid in  _ counterfeit _ notes. 

What the hell. How. Why. When.

Where would Benny get that much in counterfeit money from?

Oh  _ fuck no. _

Dean tears his eyes away from Cas, turns on Benny, suddenly furious and completely prepared to take a baseball bat to what’s left of this place himself, “You stole the money from me and used it to pay Cas? The money in my fucking closet?”

Benny flinches, won’t meet Dean’s eyes, which is all the answer Dean needs. “You fucking asshole! You snuck into my house under the cover of making me breakfast--”

“--He was in your house--” Castiel says darkly. 

“--and looking after Ben and the whole time you were casing the joint for  _ money _ ?” 

Yeahhhh, Benny’s definitely gonna be needing that hospital in a minute. 

“Don’t say it like that,” Benny mutters, breathing fast and shallow, chin against his chest. 

“He was in your house?” Castiel repeats and it’s the wrong thing to be focussing on in this situation, really.

“There’s no other way to say it, you fucking dick! You stole from me! A-fucking-gain! And then you screwed up even further by giving that counterfeit shit back to the very dude who makes it!” He runs a shaky hand through his hair, tugs, like somehow the pain will wake him up from whatever nightmare shit Kreuger is playing on him now. No such luck. Where’s Heather Langenkamp when you need her? “What the  _ actual fuck  _ were you thinking?”

Benny’s quiet for a long moment, long enough that Dean's hand begins to twitch and it’s a Herculean effort not to add the imprint of his own fist to Benny’s face. 

Finally, he says, “I just-- I was just borrowing it, Dean. I swear I was gonna pay it back, cher, you have to believe me--”

But Dean doesn’t want to -  _ can’t  _ \- hear any more excuses, "Where's the money, Benny?"

Benny juts his jaw out, realizing that Dean isn’t going to fall for it again. _ Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, get my psychotic fuck buddy to destroy your business and knees.  _ "It's gone." 

Castiel goes to raise the bat again, but Dean catches his wrist, halting the upswing. 

"Where's it  _ gone _ ?" Dean grits out, not daring to let go of Cas' wrist, inadvertently rubbing his thumb back and forth over Cas’ pulse point.

Benny ignores Dean.

"You'd better fucking answer me, Benny, or I will let him loose on you." He means it with every fiber of his being. 

Benny sighs, "I lost it."

"You lost it?" Dean repeats, not quite sure if this is real life or a Guy Ritchie movie, "It's not a set of fucking car keys, Benny, it's fifty grand!"

"I lost it in a poker game," and yep, this is a familiar tune. 

_ God-fucking-dammit, Benny.  _

"You are the world's _ shittiest  _ poker player," Dean tells him, scrubs his free hand over his mouth, tries to think, surrounded by the decimated carcass of Benny’s business, Benny’s heavy breathing, and Cas. Fuck,  _ Cas _ . 

Dean half-turns to Cas, palm still wrapped around his wrist, tries to reason with him quietly, "You need to let me sort this out."

"No." 

"Cas."

" _ No _ ." 

" _ Cas _ ."

Castiel exhales on a sigh, gives Dean that  _ ‘I-would-happily-shoot-you-if-you-weren’t-so-good-at-sucking-dick’ _ look. "Dean. This isn’t--” He stops himself, regards Dean with clear blue eyes, “It isn’t a good idea. No.”

And judging by Castiel’s demeanor, he‘s apparently expecting that to be the final word on the matter, but as far as Dean’s concerned, words count for shit and Cas’ plans even less so.

In short? Dean’s not having it. 

“Why?” He demands, even though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

“It can’t be personal,” Castiel replies, and that is fucking  _ hilarious. _ Because this is nothing  _ but  _ personal, nothing but fucked up vendettas, hurt feelings, and destroyed lives. 

But of course, Dean needs to play the game that Cas has so painstakingly set up for him, so he will. For now. “Nothing personal. I will sort it. You’ll get the fifty grand and Benny keeps his knees, right?”

A muscle in Cas’ jaw tics. Finally, he says, “You think you can handle it?”

Dean nods his head yes, but almost certainly means to shake his head no. 

Cas glances over Dean's shoulder at Benny and then slides his hand into Dean's hair, cupping the base of his skull and pulling him in until their lips crush together, in a brief, but point-making kiss, "Alright, fine. But this is your mess to deal with now. You've made it your responsibility.”

Dean looks around at the decimated bistro.

Yep, sounds about right.

  
  


***

  
  


As soon as he gets home, Dean’s taking the stairs two at a time, rushing to his bedroom closet. He checks right at the back on the top shelf where he’d shoved the shoe boxes months ago. They’re all still there, but when he drags a couple of them to the front of the shelf, it’s immediately obvious that they’re lighter than they should be.

He brings them all down, sits on his bed and counts.

It takes him just over an hour to count every bill. There’s precisely fifty thousand dollars’ worth missing. A little from each box in the hopes that Dean wouldn’t notice, like a kid sneaking booze from his dad’s drinks cabinet and refilling it with water or some shit.

Dean’s absolutely furious.

This wasn’t a spur of the moment decision; it was a calculated, thought out con and Dean would be even more pissed at himself if he’d given Benny an inch of room to wiggle back into his heart. 

As it is, he totally gets why Cas lost his shit today. 

(It also helps that it was super fucking hot. God, all that strength and rage? Yep, another one to add to the spank bank, or even better - explore in detail at some point in the very near future with the man himself).

‘Cause Dean gets to do that now.

_ Focus. _

Still, no matter how hot it was - and fuck, when he destroyed---

**_Focus._ **

\- and no matter how badly Dean would like a one-on-one repeat performance ( _ so _ badly), Dean’s not convinced that Cas’ heavy-handed method for handling this is the best way forward. No, this requires some careful thought. 

Which isn’t Dean’s forte either, but he’s damn well gonna give it a go. 

If he’s not successful, then Benny’ll lose his kneecaps and Dean may or may not be inclined to help him with some money towards a wheelchair, depending on how generous he’s feeling at the time.

No pressure then.

_ Fuck. _

  
  


***

  
  


Dean’s life is the very definition of insanity; doing the same crap over and over in the hopes of getting different results. On this week’s episode of  _ ‘Stupid Shit Dean Does For Reasons Beyond His Understanding’ _ is his crusade to keep Benny alive.

He’s not sure why he’s bothering beyond the fact that Ben’s fond of him.

Benny’s still clearing up when Dean shows up at the restaurant the next morning, a bag of money slung over his shoulder. When he comes to the door, Benny’s limping, favoring his un-Cassinated right leg, and Dean can see that the bruises on his face are just truly coming out in full bloom, a bouquet of purples. 

Shit. 

Benny lets him into the restaurant, locks the door after - which strikes Dean as a rather literal interpretation of bolting the stable door after the horse has smashed the place to smithereens and threatened your life - and immediately turns his back on Dean in favor of continuing to pathetically sweep up the glass. The place seems in much the same state as last night, and Dean wonders why Benny hasn’t called the staff in to help, especially when he’s clearly still having a lot of trouble even moving about. 

If Benny wasn’t such a conniving motherfucker, Dean would’ve helped. Hell, he would’ve driven him to the hospital, paid his medical bills--

Maybe that’s part of the problem.

“You look like shit, man,” Dean says, a pretty poor icebreaker, but an attempt nevertheless.

Benny huffs a small laugh, “Up yours.”

As angry Dean is - and he is really fucking angry right now - he just can’t bring himself to give Benny the verbal beatdown to go along with the physical one that he received at the hands of Cas. Honestly, what good would reading him the riot act do?

_ Get in, get out.  _

“Benny--” Dean starts, dumps the heavy bag on the bar.

“Not very smart, your boyfriend, is he?” Benny grumbles, ignoring Dean. “He’s ruined my business. What chance have I got at payin’ the money back if I can’t bring in any custom?”

“What?” Dean says and belatedly adds, “He’s not my boyfriend,” sounding  _ exactly _ like a high-schooler denying her crush.

Benny stops. Levels Dean with a look. “I’ve gotten the hint, Dean. It may have taken a fucking gun in my face and a psycho smashin’ up my livelihood, but I finally get it. You’ve moved on.”

Perhaps Dean should’ve hired that skywriter after all.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and with a lump in his throat turns to the bag, yanks the zipper open. “Well, consider this your alimony.”

Benny lets go of the broom and it clatters to the floor, forgotten. He stares at the bag, shuffles closer. 

“And God help you if you don’t pay it straight to Cas,” Dean says. When Benny doesn’t immediately agree, Dean zips the bag up again. “I’m serious, Benny. You need to pay him.”

“Where’d you get it from?” Benny asks.

“It’s mine,” Dean says and keeps it at that. It’s damn near half of the money he’s accrued so far through the laundering and the drugs. Thankfully he keeps his real money in a storage locker that nobody - not even Cas - knows about. 

Again, there’s a lot of criminals about these days. Apparently more than Dean had realized.

“And you can’t tell him,” He adds belatedly, “When you hand the money over, don’t tell him that you got it from me. Just make something up; say that you cashed in some bonds or whatever, called in favors, killed an elderly relative for their inheritance, whatever you want, just keep my name out of it.”

Benny’s good eye regards Dean carefully, “Trouble in paradise already?”

“No, I just don’t want him to know that I’m helping you.”

“Why? He the jealous type?”

Yeah, that’s kind of an understatement.

“No more so than you.” Dean retorts, because really, as flattering as it is, it’s growing a little old now, “That’s not the issue anyway.” Even though it’s a solid three-fifths of the issue.

“Y’sure?” Benny asks, skeptical, “‘Cause I was there last night, Dean. None of that was for my benefit, believe me. M'pretty sure it was all about you.”

Dean sighs, “Benny--”

Benny waves a hand, annoyed. “Yeah yeah, none of my business. Whatever. Look, just because you’re fuckin’ some pretty-boy plastic gangster--”

Plastic gangster? Dean would laugh if he had any mirth left.

“--What about yesterday seemed less than real to you, Benny? What about any of this--” Dean spreads his arms wide in the destroyed space, “--Seems as though Cas isn’t very fucking serious about making sure you never walk again?”

“--doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you.” Benny finishes, then adds, apropos of nothing, “Y’know, there was a lot of money in your closet. I only took enough. I could’ve taken a lot more.”

Is Dean supposed to be  _ grateful _ ?

Hackles well and truly raised, Dean snaps, “What are you getting at, Benny? And get to it quickly.”

Benny studies Dean, apparently hoping to find the answer written in the lines of Dean’s face, “What are you mixed up in, Dean? What’s he having you do?”

_ ‘What’s Castiel forcing you into’ _ is what Benny’s asking. Yeah, because Dean’s the victim in all of this; clearly not capable of making his own decisions or figuring out his own shit. No free will at all. 

“That’s definitely none of your business anymore.” He unzips a side pocket of the bag, produces the divorce papers he printed out this morning, slaps them down on the bar, “You can have this money on three conditions. The first one is that you give it to Cas, the second is that you give me a straightforward, no strings, no lawyers divorce, and the third--”

“A divorce?” Benny looks stricken, like it had never occurred to him that after  _ everything  _ Dean would want to make their split official and legal. 

Not that legality has been a bedfellow of Dean’s recently.

“What else were you expecting, Benny? You cheated on me, stole from me. Twice.” Dean shakes his head, “The divorce was always inevitable. I just put it off because there was always more important stuff to worry about. Like paying the mortgage - no thanks to you. Having Cas on my ass about getting his money back - again, no thanks to you. I’ve also been trying to keep mine and Ben’s heads above water and a million other things, so asking you for a divorce wasn’t at the forefront of my mind.”

“And now it is?” Benny asks, like the answer isn’t obvious.

“Yes, Benny.” Dean answers, “Like you said, I’ve moved on.”

Benny’s quiet for a long time, “If you hadn’t met him, would I ever have had another chance? If he wasn’t around--”

“Benny, that’s not--”  _ what this is about, _ he wants to finish, but apparently it is, so instead he tilts his head back on a sigh, “Maybe, I dunno? You still managed to fuck things up pretty thoroughly.”

“Yeah,” Benny says sadly, but there's something behind his eyes again that Dean tries not to think about, “I’m sorry, cher.”

“Me too,” Dean replies honestly. 

Benny looks like he wants to say something, ask or tell Dean something life-changing, but instead he clamps his jaw shut, says, “Fine,” resigned, “What’s the third condition?” 

Dean releases a breath, deflated, but relieved. “You have to get help, man. Go to Gamblers Anonymous. Do whatever it takes to get you right.” 

Benny takes the pen Dean offers, “You’re sure about this, Dean?”

About 95/5, but Dean nods his head yes, ignores that five percent.

“Okay,” Benny says, then repeats it softly to himself. And then he’s signing on the dotted line.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m hoping that the reveal in this chapter isn’t completely out of the blue (there’s a couple of ‘blink and you’ll miss them’ allusions to it in earlier chapters (cp.2 + a bit more overtly in cp.6 if you want receipts xD). I honestly don’t know how you’ll all feel about it, but I’m hoping that it’ll be generally positive because so far, you’ve all been amazing!!
> 
> I have written and rewritten the third and fourth scenes of this chapter so many times and I’m still not completely happy with what I’ve slapped together, but hopefully you'll like it much more than I do!
> 
> Stay safe you wonderful people <3 <3 <3

Dean’s never been a proponent of karma. Bad things happen and those who are often the perpetrators don’t receive justice, through the universe or otherwise.

Considering his current extracurriculars, he’s kinda banking on it. 

However, he’s also not one for tempting fate - bitch really has it in for him - so he’s here in the park with a bunch of rowdy private school kids on a Thursday afternoon when he could be putting his feet up and eating his weight in pie. 

A knee jerk reaction of guilt after his first paycheck from the drug money, Dean volunteered himself to chaperone grades 6 & 7 on their excursion to the local park to build some trees, and then promptly forgot about it for a month. Pretty much until the morning before when Ben, of all people, reminded him.

(He might have to get married again just for someone to tell him where to be and when. Like some kind of speaking calendar that comes with sex on tap).

So essentially, he’s trying to counterbalance some of the bad shit he’s been doing, whilst also reducing his carbon footprint. That’s gotta count for something, right?

He’s practically a goddamn saint here.

Try telling that to Ms. Hayes though. Woman has been giving him the stink eye at every available opportunity and Dean’s really looking forward to the other parental chaperone finally turning up, because maybe they can share some of her derision.

Knowing Dean’s luck - which is on a par with that one dude who got hit by lightning seven times - the other parent will turn out to be some goody-two-shoes who always signs up for this kind of shit and actually enjoys it. Unironically.

That’s not to say Dean isn’t enjoying being out in the great outdoors with a bunch of eco-conscious gen z kids, it’s just not necessarily where he imagined his life ending up when he was their age. 

A curly-haired kid just to Dean’s left is having trouble getting her child-sized spade into the earth, so Dean goes over to help. He pushes it into the turf just a little way and lets her carry on, “Make the hole shallow and wide, don’t go too deep--”

“Ah!” Ms. Hayes calls out across the green area they’re working in, sounding cheerier than Dean’s ever heard her, “Mr. Novak, thank you for joining us. We really appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to help us.”

So Ms. Hayes  _ is _ capable of not acting like a harpy. Interesting. 

Dean huffs under his breath, only mildly put out. He didn’t get the welcome wagon. His was more of a lame donkey dragging an empty cart. In fact, that might be too generous, because the exact words Ms. Hayes uttered when she saw Dean were:  _ “Oh, it’s you.”  _

It’s just as Dean suspected though; this dude must be a real goody-two-shoes or some shit, because Dean’s pretty sure that Ms. Hayes doesn’t like  _ anyone _ .

_ Ugh. _

Just what he needs; some corn-fed, _reduce, reuse, recycle,_ vegan, who spends their Sundays baking perfect pies for the church fete, and won’t buy their kid any 18-rated games, because _‘they’re age-restricted for a reason_ ’ and just, man, this is really gonna blow. 

He’s been angling for adult company that doesn’t revolve around his dick (shocker, right?) for a couple of weeks now as he’s still ignoring his brother and Charlie. He’s reluctantly starting to miss their movie marathon/games night, but he’s also far too stubborn to be the one to break the weird standoff they have going. So yeah, he’d been sort of looking forward to speaking to another adult that isn’t a criminal, an interfering self-righteous jerk, or an asshole. 

Well, two outta three ain’t bad according to Meatloaf.

The other parent is still too far away for Dean to hear what he replies to the fawning adoration from Ms. Hayes, but Dean feels kinda weird all of a sudden, like he’s being watched, a prickly sensation creeping up the back of his neck. 

He shakes it off, ignores it, figures that maybe the other parent is sizing Dean up - and he’s pretty tired of being found less than by the twinset and pearls brigade - so he moves along to help the next kid, a small boy who looks up at Dean with wide brown eyes, “I don’t like trees.”

“No?” Dean asks, crouching down next to him. Definitely shouldn’t have worn his favorite jeans for this. “How come, dude?”

“I fell out of one once.”

“Ouch,” Dean consoles, and then adds conspiratorially, without checking his surroundings first, which is a cardinal sin when dealing with kids and teachers, “I get it, trees can be assholes.”

From right behind him comes a sharp, “Mr. Winchester!” 

_ Ooops. _

He doesn’t turn around to face the cold disappointment in her eyes, just holds up his hand in acknowledgment, “Sorry Ms. Hayes,” Even though he’s not. These kids are eleven through thirteen years old. It’s not like they’re not swearing at every opportunity anyways. 

The kid giggles and Dean considers his job done. He straightens up, his knee making a horrible cracking sound -  _ don’t think about Benny, don’t think about Benny  _ \- and that’s when he gets such a strong, impending sense of deja-vu-cum-impending-doom that he has to turn around. 

Oh no. Oh hell no. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Well,  _ fuck _ . He says it a lot, but right now he means it with every fiber of his being. 

"Mr.  _ Novak _ ?"

"Yes," Castiel smirks, aviators in place, looking so breathtakingly handsome with his top two shirt buttons undone, rolled-up sleeves, and casual sex appeal that Dean wants to punch him in his stupid fucking face. He leans in close; so close that Dean could turn his cheek just a little to the left and they’d be kissing, "but  _ you _ can call me Cas."

It's flirty and charming and everything Dean knows Cas is but has never seen him be so openly. Certainly not outside of his bar. It makes Dean’s heart kick into high gear. 

“The fuck are you doing here?”  _ and why doesn’t Ms. Hayes hate you?  _

“Chaperoning,” Castiel replies easily, “And you should watch your mouth.”

_ Dick. _

“I figure you do enough of that for the both of us, Cas.”

Dean can’t see Cas’ eyes, but he doesn’t doubt that they’re on his mouth right now. It takes all of his self-restraint not to dart his tongue out and wet his lips. Instead, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, awkward and turned on; the two main markers of his interactions with Cas.

Dean was dreading getting a goody-two-shoes, sure, but this is so much  _ worse _ . 

Goddamn. 

Perhaps sensing Dean’s discomfort - or remembering where they are (because let’s face it, he  _ loves _ Dean’s discomposure around him) - Cas steps back, putting a more (but not entirely) respectable distance between the two of them. He turns his head to scan the sea of thirty or so kids, and Dean takes the opportunity to stare at Cas’ profile, because he’ll never be able to get over that mouth or that jaw, or that hair.

Fuck. This is gonna be a long afternoon. 

Pulling and binding himself together as best he can without a needle, thread and a year of therapy, Dean tries again, “Seriously though Cas, what are you doing here? This is a parent-child...” Dean trails off as a blond girl that Dean recognizes, but can’t quite place, barrels over and stops in front of Cas, snatches his hand, and starts trying to drag him across the field back in the same direction. 

“Dad, come look at the tree I planted! It’s got all these crazy roots and ohmygod, I need to tell you about--”

Castiel laughs, a throaty, carefree,  _ genuine  _ sound and Dean can hardly swallow around his heart in his throat, “Okay okay, I’m coming,” As he’s pulled away, he flashes a close-mouthed, but warm smile at Dean - who surely is gaping like a barely-functioning moron, but there really is no other reaction available to him right now - says, “I’ll catch up with you later, Dean.”

Oh yeahhh, Dean can’t wait.

  
  


***

  
  


The kids are spread out on the grass, eating their packed lunches and  _ surely _ it can’t be sanitary (hand sanitizer is not an acceptable substitute for handwashing, no matter what Ms. Hayes insists as she goes around the kids, rationing out the stuff like it’s the freakin’ war or something), but Dean’s kinda thankful for the break, so he’s not exactly complaining. 

Eh, the kids need to get bugs and stuff sooner or later, right?

Next to him, the bench sinks under a familiar weight and scent. 

“Hey, Cas.” Dean squints against the sun, deliberately not looking at the asshole sitting next to him. 

_ Shoulda brought a pair of shades. _

“Hello, Dean.” 

_ Ease into it. Play it cool. Act like you don’t even care that he’s a freakin’ dad and didn’t tell you because you’re not important enough to let that far into his life. _

"...How did I not know that you have a kid?"

_ Smooth. _

"You never asked.”

It’s just that simple, apparently. Dean wasn’t aware that they had to play twenty questions every time they see each other like a weird speed-date, just so Dean can find out the basics about the fucker. 

And it’s not like Dean’s upset about it or anything, it’s not like this -  _ whatever _ this is - is anything other than them fucking like bunnies on the regular, mixed in with some serious drug smuggling. Dean knows this, and yet… And yet sometimes he’ll catch sight of Cas watching him like he wants to take Dean apart - not in the way Dean’s accustomed to, though that too - but to see what Dean’s made of, what makes him tick, like Dean’s actually worth figuring out, like he’s worth a damn. 

It’s moments like those that Dean thinks they could be more, but it’s moments like these that make him realize they never will be. 

He doesn’t want to examine just why that hurts so much, so he doesn’t. Turns his attention to Ben instead, watching as he munches contentedly on a sandwich, periodically reaching into his bag of chips, grabbing a handful and shoving them into his face. One of his friends must complain because he sticks his tongue out, mid-chew, exposing the gross mess of chips and turkey.

_ Jesus.  _

Like father, like son.

Speaking of. Earlier on when helping the tree-hating boy stake the object of his hatred like a vampire, Dean had an epiphany about where he recognized Cas’ kid from. Still watching Ben, Dean ventures, "I see she inherited her baseball skills from you."

Cas is more of a Babe Ruth than a Pedro Martinez though.

“Very droll.” Castiel comments, an amused lilt to his voice. 

They lapse into an effortless, comfortable silence for a few moments, content to just exist. Some of the kids have finished their food and are now playing soccer with a ball that Ms. Hayes brought from the PE cupboard. A few others are playing tag, darting in and out of the recently planted trees, shrieking with laughter. 

“I know you used your own money to pay me--  _ us _ \-- back,” Castiel says eventually and Dean’s heart stutters in his chest.

_ Oh for fuck’s sake, Benny. _

This is not gonna be good.

“I was just trying to help.” Dean explains with a sigh, interlacing his fingers and looking past the kids to the huge older trees that surround the perimeter, “To help  _ him _ get his shit together, to help  _ you _ get your money back.” He turns to Cas, trying to plead with him without words.

“To get  _ our _ money back _ , _ ” Castiel corrects automatically, then faces Dean, asks, “Why?” and Dean's not sure if he genuinely wants to know or if he's trying to coax Dean toward some kind of revelation, “Why were you trying to help?”

It’s a good question. One that Dean still isn’t sure how to answer. It got him a divorce, sure, but he probably didn’t have to give Benny any money to get that. He supposes it’s because Benny and he meant something to each other once. There used to be love where now there’s just resentment and contempt, and he represents something that Dean had always tried his hardest (and failed) to be. Benny was his Trojan horse into a life of normality and bake sales at a time where Dean was just realizing that wasn’t what he wanted. Benny pulled him back from the brink and Dean had the sense to be thankful to him at the time, but now? Dean sees it for what it is. It doesn’t mean that Benny isn’t important, or that - and Dean cannot stress this enough - he deserves to die.

Even if he told Cas that it was Dean who gave him the money after Dean told him not to. D-bag.

“Because I’m not an asshole?” He tries and Cas shoots him a look that even behind the glasses says, _ ‘we both know that’s not true’ _ . “I dunno, Cas. I just did it.”

He can tell that Castiel’s regarding him with one of those head-tilt-squinty-eyed soul-fucks and it makes Dean squirm, “Well, whatever the  _ reason _ \--" and the word is heavy with implication, "--it was almost fifteen thousand dollars short.”

What.

_ You gave a gambling addict a large amount of money, what the fuck were you expecting? _

Dean, of course, was hoping for a last-minute redemption arc for his ex, but apparently that ship has sailed, been boarded by pirates, and sunk to the bottom of the Marianas trench. 

“I’ll make up the difference,” Dean says instantly, knee jerk, “Then it’s paid, right?”

Done, over. They can  _ all _ move the fuck on. The divorce is dragging its way through the petition response period right now, and Dean just wants out of this shit. Clean break. If that means more money that Dean can easily make back in the next few weeks, then so be it. 

Castiel sighs, starts to say, “ _ He  _ needs to pay, not y--” when his daughter comes running over, flushed cheeks and eyes the same shade as her father’s. 

God. Cas is a  _ dad _ . How the hell is Dean supposed to reconcile everything he knows about the man he’s been fucking for the last month - the one who heads a criminal organization with an efficiency that would make the mafia jealous, the one who smashed Benny’s place to smithereens, the one who held a gun to Dean’s head, the one who made Dean damn near cry on his cock just a couple of days ago - with this one?

“Dad, can I get ice cream? Pleeeeease?” 

Dean can’t see, but he can imagine Cas fondly rolling his eyes behind his aviators as he reaches into the front pocket of his jeans for his wallet, flips it open and hands her a twenty. “I expect change.”

Dean loosely wonders if it’s a counterfeit note he’s given her. 

“Thanks, dad!” She snatches it from his hand, but before she disappears off, Castiel leans forward, forearms on his knees, and stops her, “Claire, what's that thing I always tell you when you make a mess?" 

Claire looks confused, but dutifully answers Cas’ question, "That I gotta clean it up."

Cas looks back over his shoulder at Dean as he repeats, "’ _ That you gotta clean it up. _ ’"

Dean blanches, "Look, Cas. It’s sorted --or will be. ASAP. It’s over and done with. It’s  _ cleaned. _ ” 

"Mm-mmm." Castiel shakes his head, "Not good enough,” He turns back to Claire, sits up straight again, "I'll be over in a minute, just got some more grownup talk with my friend, Dean. Get me an orange creamsicle from the truck." 

Huh. Dean had no idea Cas was so basic. 

Claire looks at Dean for the first time and she smiles brightly at him, and yep, those are definitely Cas’ heartbreaker genes, "Hey, I know you, you're Ben's dad."

Dean can’t help but return her smile, "I sure am sweetheart. Once you’re done with your ice cream, I’m sure he’d be happy to have a game of soccer with you. Maybe go easy on him, though, eh?”

Her eyes light up and then she's gone. 

Poor Ben.

He and Cas lapse into silence again, both watching Claire as she approaches Ben, who jumps up from the grass when he sees her, and they start chattering and throwing their arms around animatedly, like the buoyant, carefree kids that they are. It mildly occurs to Dean that it seems like he and Cas have both done a good job with their kids despite their criminality (though Ben is like 98% Lisa; Dean just provided the sperm and the horrific eating habits). Claire points at the ice cream truck and Ben turns to look at Dean, silently pleading. Dean shoots him a thumbs up. 

"You give people like your  _ ex-husband _ an inch and they'll take a mile," Castiel utters as their kids join the queue together, “You need to understand that if you’re going to be successful in this business.”

And there’s really nothing Dean can argue with about that in the face of today’s little fifteen thousand dollar revelation, so instead, he tries an appeal for clemency, “Cas--”

Castiel shifts on the bench to face Dean again, stretches an arm along the back, fingertips barely brushing Dean’s shoulder. He takes his sunglasses off and hangs them on the open collar of his shirt and Dean is suddenly assaulted with all that cobalt blue and terrifying sincerity, "Here's what you're going to do. You're going to take some responsibility and put a bullet in him, or I will."

_ Woah. _

Dean gets that Benny hasn't come close to earning the same kind of grace that Dean has, so he doesn't doubt Cas' threat has the weight of intention behind it. 

"I'm not shooting my ex, Castiel. It might be the dream for spurned people the world over, but that's not who I am."

"No?"

"No. I get it, okay? He fucked you --us-- over. But the debt will be paid - it doesn’t matter how or where the money comes from - so it’s over.”

“Is it?” Cas asks, and isn’t that the fifteen-thousand dollar fucking question. Literally.

“As far as I’m concerned, yeah.”

Castiel sighs that put upon, I’m-barely-tolerating-your-shit-right-now-Dean sigh, “This will now be the third time you’ve bailed him out. He clearly hasn’t learned anything and neither have you. In our line of work, we have to deal with people like this all the time. You can’t just let them get away with it. You have to draw the line somewhere otherwise things will just escalate, and there’s no coming back from it when that happens.”

If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d assume that Cas actually gives a shit. Or that he knows something Dean doesn’t, which is probably a fair assumption. Cas could fill an entire trilogy with all the stuff he knows and keeps from Dean, and Dean’s  _ over _ it. He pieces together the stuff that he really needs to know as they go along, demands it of Cas, drags it out of him, so if it’s that important, he’ll find out one way or another.

“I have drawn the line. I’m drawing it right now, in fact. It’s done. Let it go, Elsa.”

He can tell that Cas’ patience is gossamer thin, “You’re missing the point, Dean.”

He’s pretty sure that he’s not missing it, so much as deliberately not acknowledging it, “Yeah Cas, I get it. It’s the principle of the thing, right? An affront to everything you stand for or something. Horses head in the bed, yadda yadda, all very scary. I’ve seen the Godfather, man. But it’s Benny, he’s no threat to you. And I ain’t killin’ any horses. That’s where I draw my line, okay Vito?”

Castiel slants him a benign smile (that’s anything but), settles back onto the bench and says, “If you stopped smarting off for two seconds then you might actually hear what I’m saying to you.”

Asshole.

Dean’s about to tell him as much when Ms. Hayes approaches them, regarding Dean with the kind of disdain most people reserve for vegetables or something equally horrifying. She swiftly turns her attention to the much-more deserving Castiel, “Mr. Novak, would you mind assisting us with something? We need a big strong man to help.”

_ What am I, chopped liver? _

She all but flutters her eyelashes at Cas and Dean would be jealous, but the way he feels right now? Yeah, they’re welcome to each other. They can make haughty, unbearably smug babies together and judge people for their terrible life decisions and ex-husbands and--

Castiel smiles pleasantly at her, “Of course, Rosalind. I’ll be right over.”

_ Rosalind? _

Castiel rises after she leaves with a fierce blush and sickly-sweet smile, brushing invisible dirt off his jeans, which is super unhelpful as far as Dean’s totally-not-jealous-they-can-go-make-smug-babies-together-rant goes, because it only draws attention to those thighs and how much Dean wants to shove Castiel back down on the bench and straddle them, “Think about what I said, Dean,” then he adds for good measure because apparently they just can’t  _ not _ be annoying dicks to each other, “The stuff about not being a smartass, that is. Everything else is moot if you can’t get the hang of that.” 

“Fuck you, Cas.” He means it wholeheartedly in every possible way. 

Cas shakes his head, patient amusement in the arch of his brow. “You really should watch your mouth.” 

In a dangerous move that Dean will later chalk up to a heady mix of insanity, white-hot jealousy, and the ever-present desire to shove Cas right off that cliff edge with him, Dean licks his lips, salaciously, deliberately provocative, and before his tongue is even back in his mouth, Cas is making a rough, punched out-sound in the back of his throat and ducking down, pressing his plush mouth to Dean’s.

Dean grunts in surprise, brings his hand up to cup Castiel’s jaw on instinct. 

The kiss is slow and thorough and entirely indecent considering there are kids nearby, but Dean has a hard time caring, not when Cas’ tongue curls around his and his palms settle on Dean’s cheeks, tilting his head exactly where he wants it. By the time they break apart for air, Dean’s lips are tingling, his heart is pounding, and he’s half-hard in his jeans.

Breathing ever-so-slightly ragged, Cas presses his forehead against Dean’s, closes his eyes, “You drive me fucking  _ crazy. _ ”

Then he’s straightening up, taking all that glorious heat and that  _ mouth _ with him and Dean flounders to grasp onto reality. Cas watches Dean as he starts to back away, like he can’t  _ not _ , and Dean’s restraint is non-existent as usual because he physically cannot stop himself from smarting, “ _ You  _ really should watch your mouth, Cas.” 

Completely unrepentant and devastatingly handsome, Cas flashes Dean his arrogant asshole smirk before pulling Dean's move, dragging his tongue salaciously, deliberately provocative across his bottom lip. 

And then with amused blue eyes, he’s fucking off to go lift the heavy thing for Ms. Hayes.

_ Asshole. _

  
  


***

  
  


Ben is once again kicking his ass at one of the million racing games that Dean’s bought him over the years. Need for Speed, Gran Turismo, Colin McRae, F1...the list goes on and on. Dean gets cars, of course he does, but not a single one of these pixelated plastic racers is worth anything compared to his Baby. 

Dean tells his son this every time he and Ben play, but as usual, Ben just ignores Dean and pretends that he’s playing the AI rather than his supremely (un)cool dad. 

Still, Dean’s thankful for these moments. It won’t be long until Ben’s too old for his dad and Dean is certainly not ready for all the hearts his kid’s gonna break in his teen years. He just hopes that Ben’s got more sense on the romance front than his old man. 

It’s not like it'll be any worse.

Dean locks up and nearly crashes into a hairpin bend on the Monaco track that Ben drives right through,  _ “Shhhii-uugar!” _

_ Nice save, Winchester. _

See? He's watching his mouth.

His phone starts ringing on the coffee table and Dean ignores it, because y’know, it’s not Cas’ ringtone and he actually might catch up to his kid eventually.

“Dad,” Ben says, not looking away from the screen. 

“Hmm?” Dean asks. This freakin’ car feels like a stretch limousine going around these corners. Piece of shit. 

Ben pauses the game. Turns to face Dean on the couch, folds his left leg under himself.

Uh oh. Why does Dean feel like he’s in trouble right now?

“What’s up?” 

“You know I stayed with Benny last night?”

_ Uh-huh. _

Dean’s still pissed, of-freakin’-course he is, but Benny’s never been anything other than a great father to Ben. Which is both fantastic and unfortunate; the former because it means Ben has another person in his life who adores him, the latter because it makes it difficult for Dean to cut ties in the way that he really wants to. So, they’ve figured out that Ben stays with Lisa and Dr. Matt Thursday through Sunday, then with Dean on Sunday nights, Mondays and Tuesdays. He sees and stays with Benny on Wednesdays. This Thursday though, Dr. Matt is taking Lisa to see a show that actually sounds kind of alright - some sort of rock opera thing, so Dean gets an extra night with his kid. 

He’s always grateful for one of those. Even when he’s soundly kicking Dean’s ass at whichever racing game this one is.

“Yeah…?” Dean says cautiously. 

“Welllll,” Ben draws out, the way he does when he’s about to ask for something Dean either can’t or won’t give him, “He asked me to ask you to call him. He  _ really _ needs to talk to you, he said.”

Yeahhh, all that shit Dean said about Benny being in Ben’s life? Well, today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two, because this? This is not gonna be anything good. It’s not like Benny’s gonna apologize for stealing from Dean yet again, or for tattle-taling on him to Cas, or even for just being a pain in Dean’s ass.

Something must show on his face, because Ben’s immediately overcorrecting, “I promised I’d ask you, but only because he says you’re not answering his calls.”

_ New low even for you, Benny.  _

Ben carries on in the face of Dean’s angry silence, “He seems so sad at his new apartment. He’s pretty lonely, dad. I think he misses us.”

“I’m sure,” Dean says through gritted teeth. 

“And now that you have Castiel--”

Dean’s eyes widen, alarm spiking, “What? Who told you that?”

Ben looks at him like Dean’s a total dumbass, and that may not actually be too far from the truth, “Claire told me at the park earlier, but I knew when he came round and played GTA with me and Casey.”

Oh. 

Apparently, they really are that obvious.

“I’m not stupid,” Ben adds for good measure, as if Dean had even considered that for a second.

“I know,” Dean says, ruffling his hair, just for something to do with his hand that doesn’t involve balling it into a fist. “I know, dude.” He sighs, adds because there’s something  _ off  _ about this, “Anything else to report? Benny want me to hand-deliver him some chocolate bonbons from Paris, perhaps? Give him a back rub, fix his car?”

As usual, Ben doesn’t laugh at Dean’s weak attempt at crap jokes (he doesn’t laugh at the strong ones either), simply ignores it through almost twelve years of practice, “There’s nothing else,” he frowns, “Though sometimes when I go round there, he asks me questions about Castiel. That’s it.” And with that, he’s unpausing the game and continuing his winning streak, whilst Dean’s unpiloted car spins out and spontaneously bursts into flames.

Oh, how  _ very  _ interesting.

“Anything specific?” Dean tries for casual, hopes his 11-year-old can’t outsmart him on this front too, hopes he’s too distracted by Dean’s inferno of a car on the track to notice.

“Just if he comes around a lot and when. Oh, yesterday he was asking where he lives and works and stuff. If I’d been there.”

Forget Cas,  _ Dean’s _ gonna take a baseball bat to Benny.

Dean manages a genuine smile for his son, “Do you wanna order pizza?” At Ben’s enthusiastic-but-still-focussed nod, Dean rises up off the sofa, “Get whatever you want and I guess I’d better call Benny then, huh?”

  
  


***

Dean phones from his bedroom because there’s no way he’s going to subject Ben to the amount of foul language he’s about to unleash on his ex-husband, watching his mouth or not. He paces as he scrolls through his contacts. There are several missed calls from a number that he doesn’t recognize, but no voicemails, so they can’t have been that important. Cas always leaves a voicemail if he’s on a burner.

Benny answers after a couple of rings, and Dean’s instantly letting him have it, “Benny, you spineless asshole, chickenshit, motherfucker--”

“I know, I know.” Benny interjects, voice rushed, “I’m sorry, but you keep ignoring my calls. I know that I--”

“You know not to phone unless it’s a Ben-related emergency, right? So why the fuck would I wanna be speaking to you?” Dean continues pacing his bedroom as he rants, “And -- what the hell were you thinking getting my kid -  _ my fucking kid, Benny  _ \- involved? You have him feeling sorry for you, he’s eleven years old!”

“I know, alright?” Benny insists in the face of Dean’s tirade, “It’s important though, I just need some money--”

And Dean is definitely about to have a seizure.

“Benny, I’m already another fifteen grand down because of you. How much am I gonna keep sinking into your addiction, huh? You’re already lucky that I managed to talk Cas around--” though Dean’s not entirely convinced that he actually did “--otherwise there’d be a horse somewhere around here running around without a head!”

Or something. 

The other end of the line is quiet for a long moment, and Dean briefly wonders if they’ve been cut off, but then Benny finally speaks, low and angry, “Always about him, huh?”

“Oh Benny, seriously. Fuck off.” He’s sorely tempted to hang up, but stays on the line, breathing all out of whack and anger boiling in his veins, “This has nothing to do with Cas and everything to do with  _ you _ .”

“What do you see in him, Dean?”

“Benny--”

“--No, we need to have this conversation.”

“We don’t Benny, we really don’t,” Dean takes a deep cleansing breath, focuses on not launching his phone across the room, “What do you want? Why am I phoning you instead of spending time with my kid?”

“How much is he worth to you?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. This shit has  _ gotta  _ stop. It’s every girl’s dream to have two hot men fighting over them (and Dean is totally not immune, especially not when one of ‘em is Cas), but nobody in any of those Mills & Boons has ever seriously considered the real-life consequences and just how  _ annoying _ it truly is. 

“Pull your head outta your ass Benny, and grow up--”

“Because I’ve been considerin’ turnin’ him in.”

_ Wow.  _

Dean’s actually surprised it’s taken this long for this particular threat to rear its ugly head. He’d honestly thought that Benny would have attempted to utilize this angle a lot sooner - he and Cas damn near made bets on it - but Dean’s glad it has happened, because it just makes this whole thing easier. 

Of course, Dean would be pretty worried about Benny’s threat if Cas hadn’t told Dean about the doubles match he’d had with a councilwoman, the DA, and the chief of police last week. By all accounts, the DA is the next Federer. 

_ Friends in high places, for sure. _

“Okay?” Dean says slowly, tries to remain impassive, “So what is this, Benny? A shakedown?”

“Nah, cher.” Benny says, “Only said that I’d been thinkin’ about it. Don’t wanna get you into trouble, ‘cause that’d kill me after all you’ve done for me. I  _ do _ know a fair bit about his operation though and insurance ain’t payin’ out after the damage done...”

Well, fuck. Cas wasn’t wrong, was he? God, he’s gonna be even  _ more _ insufferable now.

“Get to it, Benny. What do you want?”

“My husband back and that fucker gone. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Not gonna happen,” At this point, Dean might have to go around his apartment and stand out on the lawn with a boombox and Taytay’s  _ ‘We are never ever getting back together’ _ on repeat. “Try again.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d say somethin’ like that. Another fifteen thousand should do it then.”

Who the fuck is this guy? ‘Cause he’s definitely not the one Dean married. Though, in fairness, it’s not like Dean is the same man either.

_ Thank Christ _ . 

“This isn’t for the tables is it, Benny?”

It’s not like it really matters even if it is, but he’s made the mistake of feeding Benny’s addiction before. Cas is right, he needs to draw the line somewhere.

Though at the moment, it's less a line and more an abstract futuristic version of what a line might someday hope to be.

_ Cas is gonna be furious. _

“Nah, it’s to get the bistro back up and runnin’ again. Don’t wanna lay off the staff ‘cause of your psychopathic boyfriend.” 

Well. That’s something.  _ That, _ Dean can get behind. 

He’s torn, because on one level, he fully understands what Cas was circling around in the park earlier; Benny is clearly a manipulative fucker, but at the same time, it sounds as though he needs help and how the hell would Dean look at Ben in the eye again if he could’ve helped his ex-stepdad that he loves so much, and didn’t?

In fairness to Benny, it was a pretty shrewd idea involving Ben; it certainly reduced the chances of Dean saying no. 

Just call him _Charms_ , because he’s got ‘Big Sucker’ written on his forehead.

“Fine. But I mean it, Benny, this is absolutely it---”

“I swear Dean, thank you.”

_ Time to torch that bridge, Winchester. _

“--and I think it’s best if Ben doesn’t stay with you for a while.” He’s not saying to be an ass, he’s  _ not _ , (mostly, though he  _ is _ finally starting to lean into that vindictive streak he never fully appreciated), but if it turns out that this money isn’t for what his ex says it is? Benny could end up going down a dark path and what kind of father would Dean be if he let his kid get caught up in the middle of it?

_ The kind of father who washes money and smuggles drugs.  _

Cas seems to make it work though. Dean’ll have to ask him about that.

Benny’s silent for a long moment and then says, lowly, “I can’t be around Ben, but that tattooed fucker can? Like he’s a good influence?”

Dean doesn’t bounce his head off the nearest surface in exasperation, but it’s a near thing. Instead, he ignores the question and says, “Come by after I finish work tomorrow, Benny. Around 8, I’ll have your money then. And Benny?”

“Yeah?” 

“Threaten me and Cas, or use my  _ son _ to get to me again, and it won’t be  _ Cas _ you have to answer to, y’hear me?”

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely, cher.”

  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are really gunning for Benny, huh? Don't worry, you're not the only ones ;). I hope this chapter goes some way to satisfying your collective bloodlust! 
> 
> Thank you for all of your fantastic comments - you're the best thing about writing <3.

It’s been a long day. 

In fact, it’s been a long week, long month, long several months. 

Dean’s got a six-pack of his favorite beer tucked securely under one arm and a bag of money slung over the other. He’s undeniably a lot more interested in getting involved with the former than the latter, but for now, he’ll have to show some forbearance and wait until after Benny’s been by to collect his fifteen thousand dollars. 

Which should be  _ fun _ .

On top of actually having to hold off drinking beer like a freakin’ teenager waiting for his parents to leave so he can party, Dean’s a little worried. Which he would usually temper by drinking, so it’s kind of a circular problem really.

He’s worried because he’s been bouncing around each one of Cas’ hangouts for most of the day and nobody has seen him. He’s not answering his phone either which is  _ the _ original sin as far as Cas is concerned. 

He’s a big bad gangster, so Dean’s at least ninety-six percent sure that Cas can take care of himself, but that doesn’t stop the tendrils of wrongness snaking up Dean’s spine and squeezing his heart so tight that it hurts.

So yeah, he’s in a mood. And it ain’t an especially good one.

Dean shuts his front door, tosses the keys onto the sideboard. He’s about to dump the bag of money and the six-pack on the bench and shrug out of his jacket when he hears movement in the dining room. 

He’s instantly on high alert. Ben’s at his mom’s. Nobody else should be here. 

A familiar gravelly voice calls out, all faux-cheery sitcom husband, “Honey we’re home!”

Oh, come  _ on _ .

Dean walks towards the voice, slides open the dining room doors.

_ For the love of-- _

Yeah, Dean really needs to change the damn locks. 

Cas and Benny are sitting next to each other at the table, facing Dean in the doorway. Benny’s tied to his chair though; bound with more blue fishing rope, and Dean can only imagine the state of Benny’s wrists, with the way his stocky arms are yanked tight behind him. He’s nearly motionless in the chair, mostly conscious, chest rising and falling raggedly with every breath, all the fight beaten out of him. He’s bloodied all over again; fat lip, what looks to be a broken nose, grazes and rug burn down one side of his face, already purpling bruises overlaid on the yellow and green ones from the last time he took a beating from Cas. Cas, for his part, has a couple of injuries too - his lip is bust and there’s a cut dissecting his left eyebrow - but he’s in much better shape than Benny. He’s leaning back in his seat, looking far too pleased with himself, gun in front of him on the table. The furniture is smashed to pieces all around them, splintered wood and what few ornaments Dean had - some nerdy figures and statues - are amongst the debris littering the floor.

Apparently they finally had that balls to wall fight they’ve both been craving since their little standoff in the kitchen all those months ago.

_ And Cas clearly won. _

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Dean groans, shifting his weight awkwardly, beer bottles clinking together, “I’m too tired for this shit, Cas,” He moves further into the room, dropping the bag of money at his feet and sliding the six-pack onto the opposite side of the dining table from Benny and Cas. 

Ever the serene throat-fucker serial killer, Cas says, “I told you to clean up the mess, Dean. This isn’t the PTA, you can’t just opt in and out of things when it suits you.”

Try telling that to the PTA. Once when Dean was pretty much dying from the flu (aka a hangover), they still made him do the tombola stand at the Christmas Fayre. Fucking Nazis. 

“I did!” Dean insists, frustrated beyond belief, “I am! I’m sorting it like I always do, even though it’s  _ not my mess _ , because you’re no fucking help at all and he’s--” he gestures loosely at Benny -- “even  _ less  _ fucking help, and I  _ really  _ don’t need all this right now, so if you could just take your dick-measuring contest out of my house -  _ maybe send me some pictures _ \- then I would be super grateful.”

“Ah,” Castiel says conversationally, as if Dean isn’t having some kind of breakdown, “Technically you’re correct. It’s his mess,” The muzzle of the gun brushes under Benny’s chin and he flinches, “But you made it yours when you took on the responsibility. I warned you.”

He’s right, he did. 

And isn’t that just the glittery turd on top of the shit sandwich? Dean didn’t have to be in this situation right now. He coulda just stepped away and let Cas do his job, deal with Benny his way, but oh no, Dean rides to the rescue like fucking always and for what? A smug lecture from one of them and nothing but lies and manipulative ingratitude from the other. 

He is fucking _ done _ with this shit. 

“Yeah, ya did Cas, and you know what? You’re right. Benny clearly isn’t learning anything, neither am I, and neither are you--”

_ Lather, rinse and repeat. _

“-- so both of you fuck off. I have beers to drink and shit to do that doesn’t involve dealing with either of you two assholes.” He goes to leave, but of course Cas has to have the last word.

“Dean.”

Dean doesn’t turn around, just flips Cas the middle finger. 

“ _ Dean! _ ”

So getting yelled at by a gangster who has most likely dropped more bodies this week than Bundy did in his lifetime is every bit as pants-wettingly terrifying as you’d imagine. Still, all aboard the crazy train, because Dean whirls on Cas, incensed, “What Cas, fucking  _ what _ ? You’re going to--” he deepens his voice, trying to comically match Cas’ timbre “--’ _ take some responsibility and put a bullet in him’ _ right? Why do I have to be here for that? Why do  _ you _ have to be here for that? Yeah, that’s a good point actually; why the fuck are you here? Shouldn’t you be in a creepy warehouse or at the pier or wherever you go to murder people?”

Castiel rises gracefully from his seat, asks darkly, “Are you done?”

_ No. Yes. Maybe. _

Benny, with all the sense of a blind old dog in rush-hour traffic, chooses that specific tension-so-thick-you-probably-couldn’t-cut-through-it-with-a-chainsaw moment to air his views, “You’re nothin’ but a fuckin’ bully, Castiel. You might be able to intimidate Dean--”  _ and really, what about his and Cas’ current standoff screams ‘intimidated’ to Benny?  _ “-- But I’m not scared of you,” And yeah, his bravado isn’t even close to being endearing anymore. 

Apparently Dean’s not the only one who thinks so, because a second later, Cas’ fist catches Benny across the jaw, snapping his head to the side. He barely even looks as he throws the punch, the suave fucker. 

"Then you're a fucking idiot," Dean tells Benny, maybe a little redundantly after a left hook like that. To Cas he says, “We both know I ain’t shooting him. Your hard-on for needing him dead is yours and yours alone. Don’t bring me into your little role-play fantasy. I’m more into naughty nurses and gay cowboys.”

Castiel drags the muzzle of his gun across the smooth surface of the dining table as he comes around to meet Dean, cutting a path through the bits and pieces of Dean's life that are broken and scattered across the floor, all fluid and easy, and scary as hell. 

Dean tries again, sensing DANGER WILL ROBINSON, “What good will shooting him do anyway? Like realistically, Cas? I get that he’s a dick, but if you went around shooting everyone who was a dick then I’d be dead for starters, right?”

_ Probably not a good idea to remind him of that right now, Dean. _

“I mean, umm, will shooting him make your life actionably better?”

Castiel tilts his head, scans Dean’s face with unfathomable eyes, “Yes.”

In the immortal words of Bobby; _ balls _ .

“I told you, Dean. Give people like him,” He jabs the gun in Benny’s direction, “an inch and they’ll take a mile,” He nods to the bag on the floor at Dean’s feet, “What’s in the bag?”

Well, shit.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Cas’ smile is sharp, serrated. His bottom lip shines with still-drying blood. “So just tell me then.”

Dean presses his lips together, says nothing.

"Pick up the bag, Dean."

With a muttered curse, Dean bends to retrieve the bag and dumps it onto the table. Cas yanks open the zipper, revealing precisely thirty thousand dollars. 

Fifteen in counterfeit and fifteen in real cash. Red bands around the former, blue around the latter, because fuck if Dean can tell the difference.

And _ this  _ is why he’d been looking for Cas all damn day. After yesterday's conversation in the park, he’d wanted to get the (real) money to Cas before Cas got to Benny.

Task failed successfully. 

Cas peers further in the bag, flicks through a stack of the counterfeit shit, looks up at Dean with a different kind of appreciation in his eyes, “So you  _ were  _ listening?”

Dean lifts a shoulder up in a shrug, “It has been known to happen.”

“Not in my experience,” Castiel says dryly, sexy eyebrow firmly arched. 

_ Asshole. _

“What can I say, Cas? You weren’t wrong. Gotta draw the line somewhere right? Which is why you don’t need to shoot him. And definitely not in my fucking house."

He feels it’s especially important to point out that last part, because it’s long since been established that he’s not exactly Martha freakin’ Stuart, and those curtains behind Benny were expensive. Cleaning them would take for-fucking-ever.

That’s at least half of the reason he doesn’t want Benny shot. The other half? Eh, he’s not entirely sure why he’s putting up a protest anymore. Feels more like habit than a genuine interest in Benny’s safety. Maybe because it’ll be difficult for them all to be a big happy family or whatever Brady Bunch shit Dean dreams about on a daily basis, if Ben found out that his new stepdad murdered his old one. 

Could make family gatherings awkward, to say the least. 

Both of the aforementioned are perhaps at least a contributing factor as to why Dean thought long and hard about all this after his phone call with Benny last night. There’s no coming back from the shit that Benny’s trying to pull; Cas is right (of course he is, smug fucker). Benny’ll keep gunning for them until there’s nothing left but tattered paper targets and shells everywhere. So Dean made an executive decision. He’s drawing the goddamn line. 

Like he said, Benny’s redemption arc has played itself out. 

The way that Dean sees it, him giving Benny the counterfeit cash is essentially him giving his ex a rope. Either Benny can use it for good (the bistro) and pull himself out of the shit, or he can use it to hang himself by gambling. Benny starts handing out counterfeit shit at poker games, sooner or later he’s gonna have his ass handed to him, because whilst God-fearing, law-abiding folk won’t recognize Cas’ Monopoly money for what it is, Dean’s pretty sure that a lot of the poker rooms and the people who frequent them, will.

Either way, the universe rights itself and Benny stops threatening them, leaves them the fuck alone. No need for any bullets. On either side.

Problem solved.

“Uh-huh,” Castiel says knowingly, and Dean’s getting seriously pissed at his inability to share with the fucking class, “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” He zips the bag back up.

“Are you gonna elaborate or just keep talking in circles, ‘cause that beer is calling my name Cas, and I’m not about to ignore it.”

Castiel rolls his shoulders, all business, “Keep the money, he doesn’t need it. He never needed it,” He says it so casually, as if it ain’t no big thang, that Dean’s immediately reminded of the empty truck that he drove from one side of the city to another, just so Cas could get his rocks off on Dean’s naivety.

“What?” He looks at Benny and then Cas, hoping that either one of these fucks will elaborate before someone from just outside the dining room shouts,  _ ‘...and scene!’  _ “What do you mean ‘ _ he doesn’t need it’ _ ?” Dean enunciates slowly, patience merely a veneer stretched taut over the rage and confusion currently thrumming through his entire body right now. 

“Your  _ ex-husband _ tried to hire someone to murder me. That’s what he needed the money for.”

_ What. _

For a second he’s not sure that he heard correctly and Cas’ brand of humor is more sarcasm and snark than pure off-the-wall comedy, so it’s not likely he’s making a joke either. 

But joke or not, Dean laughs. Because come on? This shit’s hilarious. In fact, it’s so hilarious that he doubles over laughing, hands on his knees, laughing so hard that he’s crying and  _ fuck _ he hasn’t laughed like this in such a long time. 

He straightens up, has a couple of false starts where he thinks he’s done, but isn’t, until finally he’s saying, “I’m okay, I’m okay.  _ Fuck. _ ” He wipes a tear away with the heel of his palm. Benny’s watching him with tired, concerned eyes and Cas’ are shining with amusement. “That’s amazing, Benny. Truly outstanding.” He lets out another short laugh, and then waves a hand, “So my thirty grand…?”

“Was for a hitman. Fifteen deposit and fifteen after completion,” And Cas actually seems  _ offended  _ that somebody agreed to kill him for the lowly sum of thirty thousand dollars.

You could not make this shit up.

Dean scans past Cas to Benny, “So how’d all that go down then, Benny? What, did you put an ad in the papers?”

Dean doesn't ask why Benny did it. He knows why. It'd be almost sweet if it weren't so tragic.

“He may as well have done,” Cas tsks, annoyed, like this whole episode has been a major inconvenience rather than a serious risk to his life, “He was asking around the poker games.”

Dean wants to be disappointed, but can’t find the energy. To Benny he says, “Thought you were gonna get help, you dick?”

“I am,” Benny says miserably -- _ and hey, every cloud _ \-- “But there’s a lot of shady people at some of the places I used to patronize. Figured that at least a couple of them might be able to point me in the direction of someone who could... y’know.”

_ Murder your boyfriend. _

“Benny,” Dean scolds, struggling to keep a straight face, “If you can’t even say it, then you shouldn’t be doing it.”

Cas makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. 

“So…” Dean makes a ‘go on’ gesture with his hand, angles his question and body to Cas, “How’d you find out about this master plan?”

In all honesty, Dean’s kind of impressed with Benny’s initiative. Never in a million years would Dean have predicted he’d try to off Cas. It’s kinda ballsy. 

Ballsy but  _ super  _ fucking stupid.

Castiel slants Dean a _ look _ , like Dean’s just asked the dumbest question in the entire world, “I’m a close associate of the businessman who owns most of the gambling establishments in the city. Word got back to me pretty quickly.”

Because of course he is and of course it did.

Yeah, this is all getting a bit too LA Confidential for Dean right about now. 

It also dawns on him that this means Cas may well have known about Benny and his addiction ahead of getting him involved in the laundering. Did he do that on purpose? Was he just waiting for Benny to fuck up?

That’s a fun little jaunt through the Machiavellian handbook for another time, but for right now, “So you’ve known for a while about this quaint murder plot, Cas, huh? You knew yesterday?”

Castiel fixes him with a glare that says,  _ ‘yes of fucking course, you amateur _ ’ as he pulls out a couple of sweating beers from the cardboard, uses the corner of the table to knock the caps off, hands one to Dean. He takes a long slow drink from his own bottle, angel wings fluttering as he swallows. 

“Mmhmm.” Is all he offers when he pulls the bottle away from his lip, shiny with beer and blood and Dean wants to kiss the flavor out of his mouth, has never wanted anything more. 

But for once there are more pressing matters than Dean’s dick, “So you didn’t think to give me the heads up -  _ oh by the way, Dean, your dumbass ex is trying to have me killed _ ?’”

Cas moves closer to Dean, close enough that they’re sharing air, alcohol on Cas’ breath and it’s a dare that Dean wants to take up, wants all that power and poise radiating off Cas for himself, “What would you have done?”

“I dunno, Cas,” Dean answers honestly, then quips, “At least tried to find a paddock or something.”

Cas takes another pull of beer, swallows, and Dean tries not to let his thirst show. Either of them. Now that his humor at the situation has mostly evaporated, he’s having a hard time with Cas’ nonchalance; the casual indifference to the fact that he could’ve died and Dean’s not sure what that says about him, about Cas, about their relationship. He’s known for a while that he’s pretty deep in _ whateverthefuckthisis _ , but as demonstrated by Cas’ general equanimity - aside from his possessive displays when Benny’s around - Dean’s pretty sure that his feelings aren’t reciprocated. At least not in full. Which is unfortunate, because Dean’s a needy bastard at the best of times and right now he needs some reassurance, physical or emotional, that things are okay.

But that’s not who they are, what this between them is about, so he just has to deal with the restlessness deep in his bones and hope it fades sometime soon. 

Cas gestures with the lip of his bottle to the one in Dean’s hand that he’s been gripping like it’s the Magical Key, “This is good beer, have a drink.”

Dean does, just for something to do. It  _ is _ good, nice and crisp, but he bought it, so he already knows that. “So what now, Cas?”

He’s not naive enough to believe that they’ll all be walking away from this.

Cas leans his weight on the edge of the dining table, knees bent, tight jeans pulled taut over thick thighs and Dean gulps down more alcohol, because at least that’s some of his thirst quenched. Cas places his gun next to his thigh, and asks, apropos of nothing, “Do you think a hundred thousand dollars of counterfeit money is important to me? You’ve seen my operation, how much money we turn over on a daily basis.”

It takes Dean a moment to catch up, but when he does?

Oh. So the money in the Kwik Bargainz safe  _ was _ counterfeit. Worthless. Good to know that Dean paid his mortgage with fake money, Sam paid Maddy's medical expenses with the stuff, and Charlie’s currently buying blackberry and elderflower wedding cupcakes with it.

“No?” Dean hedges, which Castiel confirms with a nod. “So why…”  _ did you make my life a living hell trying to pay you back in the beginning? _

“You already know the answer to that, don’t you?” Cas says, takes another swig of beer, and deposits his near-empty bottle next to his gun. He reaches out for Dean, pulls him into the open vee of his legs by the belt loops. Dean goes and stays because there’s just no other option anymore. He presses his forehead against Cas’, breathing him in, and he glimpses the rise and fall of Benny’s chest out of the corner of his eye, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, because it’s him and  _ Cas _ . Dean pulls back just enough that he can see Cas’ face properly, rests his free hand on Cas’ shoulder, thumb absent-mindedly rubbing over the tattooed wing of his collarbone.

“You know that it’s about the principle,” Cas continues, sliding a palm around Dean’s hip, positioning it possessively on his ass, and yeah, this is all for Benny’s benefit but that doesn’t mean Dean won’t revel in all this earth-scorching attention on him, “But, what you’ve failed to grasp is what that actually entails when people don’t follow the rules that you set. Drink.” He lifts the base of Dean’s bottle with the index finger of his free hand and tilts it toward Dean’s lips. “If you want to be the King, Dean, you’ve got to do whatever it takes.” Dean swallows and Cas reaches out and swipes the pad of his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip, brings it to his own lips and sucks Dean’s taste into his mouth. Dean twitches, caught between Cas’ mouth and the splay of his fingers on Dean’s ass. “If somebody wrongs you, you can't let it go unpunished or others will see it as weakness and come after you. If you’re not swift and thorough, you’ll have a rebellion to quash as well. This shit’s medieval, babe.”

Here endeth the lesson. 

“It’s not personal, just business,” Cas adds and for a second, Dean almost believes him.

“Nothing personal, huh?” Dean murmurs, eyes flicking to Benny.

“Okay,” Cas concedes with a wry smile, “So this one’s a  _ little _ personal.”

Understatement.

Trying to salvage something from the inevitability of it all, Dean says, “Well, what if I don’t want to be the King?”  _ -Or Queen-  _ “What happens if I want--” He fumbles, reaching for something he might want besides the attractive, arrogant fucker about to kill his ex for being a complete idiot. 

“You can have whatever you want, Dean,” Cas tells him, completely honest and it sounds like a thousand promises all rolled up in one. He drains the dregs of his beer, replacing the now completely empty bottle on the table and hauls Dean in even closer as he straightens up, one hand still on Dean’s ass, the other on his hip. They’re chest to chest, nothing but a heartbeat between them and it would be  _ so  _ easy to kiss him, “You can do whatever you want.”

Dean reads it as ‘ _ I can give you everything, just ask’  _ as he counts the shades of blue in Cas’ eyes. “Fuck,  _ Cas _ .” The air between them crackles with the potential for sex and violence and Dean gives himself over to it, looping his arm around Cas’ neck and crushing their mouths together, iron-rich taste of blood mingled with the beer they’ve both been drinking, and Dean kisses like it’s the first and last time, demanding and desperate, and Cas opens up for him, tongue pushing and tasting, slow burn simmering in Dean’s veins.

Benny coughs, all indignant death rattle and Dean reluctantly breaks away from Cas, releasing him from the hook of his arm. 

Cas’ pupils are blown wide, full of heat, and Dean wants nothing more than to slot their hips together and just rut against each other until they come in their pants like teenagers. Unfortunately, that isn’t really an option ‘cause they need to come to some sort of agreement regarding Benny - who’s been sitting there silently witnessing this whole thing. 

He glances over Cas’ shoulder and sees his ex watching them, watching Dean like he’s really truly seeing him for the first time, and there’s fear in his eyes. 

Cas exhales softly against Dean’s hairline, lips ghosting the curve of his ear, “If it makes you feel any better, he put up a decent fight.”

It doesn’t. 

Castiel presses a chaste kiss to Dean’s temple, draws back, retrieves his gun. 

He goes back over to Benny, sliding the chamber back, thumbing the safety off and Benny seems to be finally realizing that he’s not dealing with just any old _ ‘pretty-boy plastic gangster’ _ .

“Dean, you have to help me--”

Dean’s pretty sure that he doesn’t  _ have  _ to do anything anymore.

“So, tell me,” Castiel presses the gun to Benny’s temple, right in the exact place where he’s just kissed Dean with a tenderness that made his heart ache. In a bastardized parody of  _ that _ bedroom scene, except the gun isn't to his head anymore, Castiel asks, "What  _ do _ you want, Dean?"

“Dean!” Benny shouts again, the sound a little more shrill and panicked this time around, “You can’t let him kill me--”

Fuck.

It sounds so simple when Cas is  _ right there _ , a constant feedback loop of Dean’s desires reflected back at him tenfold, but now, looking at the stark reality of a gun pointed at his ex-husband’s head, Dean can’t think above the sound of his own heartbeat pounding against his chest, the roaring of blood in his ears. 

This time the answer is truthful enough, “I don’t  _ know _ .”

“Yes, you do. Decide.”

Fuck. He knows what he  _ doesn’t  _ want: he doesn’t want to be cleaning up blood splatter, he doesn’t want his ex  _ dead;  _ just out of his life - his actual life  _ now _ , not the one he built with Benny, the one he hates, because if he’s honest with himself -  _ and if not now, when?  _ \- he’s never wanted any of it; the benign normalcy, the marriage to someone he thought he loved who could help him appreciate bunting for fuck’s sake, the goddamn endless banal chitchat with people who think they’re better than Dean simply because they know what a fucking genoise is. 

The answer comes surprisingly easy after that, "I just want out.”

“Done,” Cas says like a fucking malevolent genie and lowers his gun. Dean sees what Cas is going to do a split second before he actually does it.

A single shot rings out, resonating throughout the near-empty house.

  
  


***

  
  


Dean’s never liked hospitals. It’s where people go to die and having lost both his mom and dad, and damn near losing his niece, it’s certainly somewhere he isn’t keen on being for any length of time. 

Yet he’s been here for -- seven hours and thirty-six minutes. 

_ Fucking Cas _ .

Next to him, Sam snuffles awake in the plastic hospital chair, face creased with sleep where he’s been drooling on Dean’s jacket. “Any news?”

“Nah,” Dean says because no doctor has been by for at least an hour, “Nothing since he came out of surgery. He’s still in the ICU.”

“Okay,” Sam says softly, “You okay?”

_ Certainly a lot better than Benny. _

“Yeah,” Dean answers (mostly) honestly, “Just tired.”

“It’s all gonna be okay, Dean.” Sam says like he  _ knows _ , like he could possibly know, but maybe he’s right. Dean certainly hasn’t felt as at peace as he does right now, for a considerable amount of time. 

He knows what he’s gotta do, how he’s gotta do it.

Nothing like your ex-husband getting shot by your current beau to make you realize the important things in life.

“Must have been really horrible coming home and finding him like that,” Sam prods gently, but still dogged in his quest to get Dean to open up about events that never happened.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees lamely, “Total shocker. Never saw it coming, man.”

The official line - one that he’s spun to multiple nurses, doctors, police officers, and nosy brothers - is that Benny happened on some erstwhile burglars whilst waiting for Dean so they could go over (amicable) divorce proceedings, got himself beaten and shot.

_ Terrible business all round, really. _

Sam hums, “Bad timing though, right? I mean what  _ are the odds _ that the one night Benny turns up at your place, there just happens to be a bunch of hardened criminals in your house?”

Probably a lot higher since he’s met Cas.

“Mmm,” Dean murmurs, “Neighborhood has gone to hell in a handbasket, for sure.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, all amateur Private Dick, “Such shitty luck for Benny, getting caught up in a violent home invasion in a gated community.”

A nurse goes past with a bunch of those little cups of drugs and Dean’s tempted to accost her and just down a mix of them, anything to get out of the sasquatch inquisition, “Yup.” 

“Can’t believe they tied him to a chair.”

_ Believe it, Sammy. _

“Fucked, ain’t it?”

For a few long minutes Sam attempts to burrow into Dean’s consciousness using nothing other than the power of annoy, but finding Dean clamped up tighter than a nun during lent, he gives up, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he stands, stretches, bones clicking and muscles unwinding, “You want anything from the cafeteria?” 

“Nah,” Dean says, “Thanks though.”

Sam strides off down the gleaming white corridor and Dean spaces out for a while, watching people come and go, families with somber expressions and tear-streaked faces.

Should Dean cry? Will they think it’s weird that he’s not emotional? Under the right circumstance, he might be able to squeeze out a single perfect tear like a soap opera actor. That circumstance being somebody telling him that he can  _ go the fuck home _ . 

A familiar body slides into Sam’s recently vacated seat. Dean doesn’t need to look to see who it is, “What do you want?”

“Isn’t that my line?”

Dean turns to face him then. Bastard is still as gorgeous as ever, even with the cut on his lip scabbing over, a couple of butterfly stitches across his eyebrow, “You’re an asshole.”

“And yet I didn’t kill him.” 

Which really is something only an asshole would say.

“Oh gee, thanks Cas.” Dean says, all faux sweetness, “Says a lot for our relationship when the nicest thing you’ve done is not kill my ex. You're paying the cleaning bill by the way."

It mildly occurs to him that for Cas, that might actually be the case. After his big speech about being King, shooting Benny to maim rather than kill is probably a grand romantic gesture. A concession that he made for Dean’s sake because he gives a shit. 

Either that or he’s shrewd enough to know that Dean would have never let him forget about it, and Dean not shutting the fuck up about anything is one of Cas’ long-running frustrations.

Dean hopes for the former, but knows it's the latter. 

He’s expecting Cas to wheel out some excuse about Benny starting it or some other playground bullshit, but instead he just murmurs, “Our relationship?” 

“Business.” Dean clarifies, even though that’s not what he meant at all and they both know it.

Cas doesn’t call him out on it, “I meant what I said, Dean. You can have whatever you want... New curtains, carpet, the lot. I’ll spring for some wallpaper too, because even before the blood and guts, that dining room was a disaster.”

_ Thank you, the criminal underworld’s answer to Joanna Gaines. _

Dean bites back a smile, “S’real cute, Cas.”

“Mmm, I thought so.”

They watch in silence as someone is wheeled past on a gurney, surrounded by lots of paramedics frantically calling out shorthands for stuff that Dean is pretty sure ain’t good. They’re gone as quickly as they appeared and the hallway is silent again. 

“Anything I want, huh?” Dean asks, waits for Cas’ confirmation, “What if I want you out of my life?”

Cas arches his injured brow, “You think that’s an option?”

No. Dean didn’t ever think that.

Even if Dean could have his apple pie life again, could go back to being Dean the mechanic, rather than Dean the mechanic-cum-drug-smuggler-cum-money-launderer-cum-Cas’-partner-in-life-and-crime, he understands that he wouldn’t know how to be that person anymore. 

“What  _ are _ my options, then Cas? You seem to have all the answers, so why don’t you tell me what’s happening here.”

“Well,” Cas says, “Obviously, you’re going to continue to launder the money and receive the drugs.”

Obviously.

“What if I say no? You gonna put a bullet in me too?”

Gotta do whatever it takes, apparently. Tough being King and all that shit. 

Castiel doesn’t say anything, but Dean already knows the answer, which is why the next words out of his mouth are, “Tell you what, Cas,” He leans in close as someone in scrubs bustles past, “You destroy my brother’s DNA sample that you’ve been holding onto in case of ‘emergencies’ and then I’ll consider continuing our business partnership."

There’s a flicker of something behind Cas’ eyes for the briefest of moments; perhaps surprise that Dean knows about his bargaining chip. And sure, the dude’s got one hell of a poker face, yeah. But Dean knows his tells and whilst it was a shot in the dark, it hit the intended mark. 

Realistically, Dean should have thought about it sooner, but he and Sam have had a lot of time to kill in the last-- seven hours and fifty-eight minutes. Sam - ever the worrier that he is - had the damn good sense to wonder aloud what actually happened to his DNA sample, to ask Dean if Cas had ever said, so Dean spooled back through his texts to find the one where Cas had informed him that he ‘acquired’ the sample, rather than destroyed it. 

Anybody else he would’ve given the benefit of the doubt. Not Cas though. 

Can’t let people who wrong you and owe you off the hook _ that _ easily and Dean’s always had a niggling doubt that Cas let it go just a  _ bit  _ too easily. 

If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say that Cas almost looks  _ pleased _ Dean figured him out, “What if  _ I  _ say no?”

“Well, then _ I _ might just put a bullet in  _ you. _ ”

Dean’s always been much better at poker than Benny. He can actually pull off a bluff for starters.

Castiel seems to consider this, then he finally smiles; a dark-eyed devious thing that Dean’s grown to associate with impending orgasms, “You’re good at this,” It’s matter of fact, like he’s confirming something he already knew.

“Learned from the best,” Dean quips and it’s not a lie, “So?”

“Fine,” Castiel agrees after a moment, “On one condition.”

“Go on.” 

“You let me teach you the rest. You let me teach you everything.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who’s read any of my other stuff knows I’m a sucker for circular endings. I make no apologieeeeeeeesss!!!
> 
> Also, considering what led up to this final chapter, this is pretty darn fluffy. Please proceed with caution. 
> 
> Also also also, please check out the [ amazing artwork by complexlysimplekiddo](https://cedesdraws.tumblr.com/post/613697701381603328/bad-things-by-duckyboos-dean-is-living-the)

The security light is on in the backyard. The stark brightness slants through the open blinds in Dean’s bedroom, waking him, because life is a  _ bitch _ and Dean doesn’t need sleep apparently.

“Ugh,” he groans into his pillow, not quite cognizant enough to curse any one person or deity specifically, just sending out a general, one-size-fits-all  _ fuck you _ to the universe. He manages to lift his head to glance blearily at his alarm clock. The numbers under the dancing bacon tell him that it’s just after three AM. 

_ God-fucking-dammit. _

Fumbling around blindly in the top drawer of his nightstand, he finds what he’s looking for and untangles himself from the comforter, rolling out of bed, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the open drawer. He fell into bed less than two hours ago wearing nothing but his underwear and he doesn’t bother to put anything else on now as he cautiously pads out of his bedroom, poking his head around the other doorways cracked open on his way past. He creeps downstairs, mindful of the second step from the top, creaky motherfucker that it is. 

His heart is a wild, fluttering thing against his ribcage and if he didn’t have the reassuring weight of his gun in his palm, the initial knowledge of its existence in the nightstand drawer, it’s likely he would’ve just rolled back over and gone straight back to sleep, content to let someone murder him in his bed as long as they let him sleep through it.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and treads softly through the dining room and kitchen, feet stick-releasing on the linoleum floor. Whoever triggered the security light doesn’t seem to be in the house at least, which is something. 

He takes a deep, quiet breath as he unlocks the glass door and yanks it open halfway, low rumble on the runner. He steps out onto the patio, into the crisp spring air, semi-automatic held up, sweeping the area for any movement. The slabs are cool under his feet; weirdly refreshing rather than extremity-numbing. 

He squints to see beyond the brightness of the security light, eyes only recently adjusted to the darkness in the house, so he moves forward until he’s on the grass, prickly, springy texture between his toes and it’s then that Dean sees the outline of  _ someone _ and his breath catches in his throat.

Palms damp with sweat, Dean thumbs off the safety, aims the gun at the shadow sitting on the picnic table, “Come out with your hands up, or I’ll shoot you where you stand...or well,  _ sit _ , I guess.”

As far as threats go, it’s probably up there with wishing for someone to step on a Lego. Dean’s still working on it. 

The shadow moves, each step full of purpose and liquid grace as it walks into the reach of the light, palms up in a gesture of peace. It halts at the perimeter of glaring white, still partially shrouded in darkness. Dean releases his breath on a rushed exhale, lowers his gun, flips the safety back on. “ _ Cas _ . What the fuck are you doing out here, you creeper?”

Castiel slants him an amused look, drops his hands, “The door was locked.”

“Never stopped you before,” Dean mutters, reaching for Cas’ tie and hauling him into the light. Castiel comes easily, hands settling on Dean’s naked hips, thumbs in the wing of the bone, all smooth warmth and sense memory, “How’d it go?”

A man of few words, Cas simply says, “Fine,” and Dean definitely doesn’t roll his eyes. 

“Yeah?” Dean prompts, gun pressed over Cas’s heart through the fabric of his shirt, “Benny behaved himself?  _ You _ behaved yourself? Nothing smashed? No priceless limited edition  _ Spawn _ figures broken this time?”

_ Yeah, not bitter about that statue at all. _

In fairness, it’s not like Benny’s in any condition to be trying anything right now anyways, but the man has a proven track history with stupid that rivals even Dean’s.

“No,” Castiel replies, then adds just to be a dick, “There were no figures broken because we didn’t have the sign over take place in a fourteen-year-old boy’s bedroom. Or a fourteen-year-old-masquerading-as-a-thirty-two-year-old’s dining room.”

Ass. That thing was a damn  _ collectible _ . 

“You’re fucking hilarious, Cas.”

“Mmm,” Cas agrees, liquid-dark eyes dropping to Dean’s lips. Heat flares low in Dean’s abdomen and he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, “Everything was fine. The bistro belongs to me -  _ us _ \- now, so that’s it.”

Cas is teaching Dean a lot of things, but in return Dean’s having Cas learn that revenge doesn’t always have to involve bloodshed. Killing Benny would have been deserved, but also kinda quick and final. Yet Benny’s inevitable filing for bankruptcy meant that all his nonexempt assets were seizable, so the restaurant was open season. Of course, Cas - being the vengeful, extra fucker he is - requested Benny’s presence at the final sign over, just so he could enjoy watching Benny losing the only thing he had left. 

This way, Cas has everything that was once Benny’s; his bistro, his family, his  _ Dean _ . Benny’s a jealous man; living with that shit will fuck him up worse than any bullet to the head ever could. 

Yeah, Dean’s  _ really _ leaning into that vindictive streak.

“You think it’s gonna make us a decent amount of money?”

Because of course Cas has already factored all that in; knowledge initially gained through the turnover rate of laundered money and confirmed through accounts that Dean was able to access after Benny’s unfortunate encounter with the business end of Cas’ .45. 

So yeah, they destroyed him without having to lay a finger on him and it makes Dean’s pretty damn proud that Cas not only went with Dean’s idea, but actually seemed to enjoy himself too. 

‘Cause the guy needs a bit more levity in his crazy life.

Castiel makes a pleased sound against Dean’s lips as he leans in for a barely-there chaste kiss, nothing more than a tease, “Certainly enough in the next month - even with the renovations - for that trip to Disneyland. Might even be able to spring for a hotel too.”

Dean abruptly feels such a huge swell of affection for the man currently pressed against him, staring at Dean with inky-black eyes like he wants to eat him alive, that Dean’s not quite sure how to vocalize just how much Cas means to him, how much he wants every inch of this infuriating, terrifying, beautiful fucker, how much he already feels for him, so he tries to show it in the only way he feels equipped with right now; by fusing his mouth to Cas’, kissing the words from his lips, tasting hard liquor and  _ Cas.  _ A moan escapes his throat and Cas swallows it, bringing his hand up to Dean’s jaw, holding him open as he fucks his tongue in, slick, wet pressure of their mouths together, hungry little noises as they devour each other.

Cas breaks away, pad of his thumb dragging through the mix of their saliva on Dean’s bottom lip, and asks, gravel rough, “Are the kids asleep?” At Dean’s breathy,  _ ‘Yeah, checked in on ‘em just now,’  _ Cas pushes the tip of his thumb into Dean’s kiss-swollen mouth, all salt and gun oil, and Dean’s pretty sure he’ll never get bored of this, the effortless zero-to-sixty of it all, how they can be all business and then _ getting down to business _ . He suckles greedily, teeth nipping, incisor scraping over flesh and Cas growls, slipping his thumb in further, letting Dean suck in earnest, tongue laving over the whorls in his skin, chasing the DNA imprint. “You like having me in you, Dean?”

The answer to that is pretty fucking obvious.

Dean communicates this with another sharp nip to Cas’ thumb, before he pulls back, releasing the digit and then he’s kissing Cas’s throat tat, becoming preoccupied with Cas’ pulse point, heartbeat drawn to the inked surface with his mouth. With a low, broken moan, Cas yanks Dean tight against him, bodies molded, buttons of his shirt impressing into Dean's naked flesh, skin-warm metal of the gun between them, Cas’ palms riding Dean’s spine, “Yeah,” Dean manages, burying his face in Cas’ throat, thin sheen of sweat already on Cas’ skin, and it’s good to know that Dean’s not the only one affected here. Though the hard length of Cas’ dick grinding up against Dean’s hip bone is a pretty  _ big  _ clue. 

Cas turns them around, starts backing Dean up into the darkness where the light doesn’t reach, long strides eating up the lawn, his pants-clad thighs grazing against Dean’s naked ones, whisper of the expensive fabric as they move together. The backs of Dean’s knees hit the picnic bench and Dean goes down, ass coming down on the slats with a thump. The gun clatters out of his hand, across the wood, tumbling to the grass under the table.

Neither of them pays it any mind.

Dean reaches for the button and zipper of Cas’ pants, tugs them open. “What d’you want, Cas?”

The security light goes off, plunging them into near-darkness; the two of them now only illuminated by a sliver of moon that peeks out from behind wisps of cloud.

“I want you to ride me,” Cas says and Dean’s dick twitches, blurts out a drop of precome. 

And fuck yeah, Dean is definitely up for that. In every way possible. 

“Get me wet,” Cas demands, and before he’s even finished the three-word command, Dean already has his dick out of his pants and boxers, relishing how big and thick it feels in his hand, velvet smooth skin, spongy head a textured shape under his fingers.

He opens his mouth, musk and salt-tang of Cas’ dick so close, skidding slick across his cheek and leaving a trail of precome in its wake, before he takes the head in his mouth, lips wrapping around the ridge, flattening his tongue against the slit and Cas’ hand comes down on his shoulder with a sharp intake of breath. 

Dean risks a glance up through his lashes at Cas, catches sight of the ruinous blowing of Cas’ pupils, even in the darkness, and it sends a sharp shot of arousal through his veins, his own rock hard dick jerking painfully between his legs. 

He takes more of Cas in, lets him slide along his tongue, precome and spit coating the smooth glide, nudging towards his throat, and Cas digs his fingers into Dean’s flesh, “ _ Dean _ .” 

Dean hums his response, and Cas groans, squeezes Dean’s shoulder before drawing back, pulling his cock out of Dean’s mouth with a slick pop. 

There’s some awkward maneuvering, but soon Cas is on the bench, naked from the waist down, shirt open, tie a dark line between his pecs to his stomach, and Dean is totally naked, knees straddling Cas’ thighs, head of Cas’ dick pushing up the cleft of Dean’s ass, trailing slick across his perineum. Dean sucks two of his fingers in his mouth, coating them liberally with spit, presses one up in himself to the first knuckle, wincing at the tight pinch, but desperately willing himself to loosen up for Cas.

Underneath him, Cas starts stroking himself, smearing the rapidly-drying saliva up and down his length, mouthing kisses against Dean’s chest, teeth catching on Dean’s nipple, burn of his stubble against Dean’s sensitized skin. Dean lolls his head back on a low whine and he needs Cas inside him _yesterday_.

“Cas,” Dean pants, two fingers, and almost three knuckles deep, “Need you to fuck me.”

Cas knocks his hand away, shoves two of his own spit-coated fingers in, presses in deep and Dean moans, rides his hand. Dean spits into his palm, uses it to coat Cas’ cock, then shifts his weight, so that he’s crushed in as close as he can be, cockhead rubbing against Cas’ stomach, catching tantalizing on the silk of his tie, weight braced on Cas’ strong thighs. He reaches back for Cas’ dick, lines himself up and sinks down as Cas pulls his digits out, smoothly trading fingers for cock.

Fuck, it hurts.

Cas makes a wounded, punched-out sound in the back of his throat as the head of his dick breaches the ring of inner muscle, sharp flare of pain for Dean, and Cas’ hands come up to Dean’s hips, thumbs digging into bone, an iron-vice grip. Dean braces himself on Cas’ shoulders, fingernails cutting deep, little crescents drawing blood to the surface.

The dry drag of penetration is slow-going and by the time Cas’ thighs are flush with Dean’s ass, Dean’s muscles are wound in knots, his toes are curled so hard that his calves are cramping, and there’s sweat pooling at the base of his spine, despite his nudity and the mild balminess of the night.

Underneath him, Cas lets out a strangled moan that gutters off into a growl, and nothing has ever been hotter, honestly. 

Dean clenches, just to hear it again, and he’s not disappointed when Cas obliges with a little hitch of his hips.

Dean’s almost content to stay like this, thick dick in his ass, filling him to the brim, but he _ really  _ wants to get fucked, so he reluctantly cants his hips enough, dragging himself up Cas’s dick, and he drops his sweaty forehead to Cas’, the two of them sharing ragged breaths as Dean gradually pulls himself up until just the tip of Cas’ dick is inside him, thigh muscles burning with the effort of holding himself up, knees digging into the wooden slats of the bench.

_ Definitely shouldn’t have skipped leg day.  _

Cas is cognizant enough to spit into his palm, filthy wet, and spread it down between where their bodies are joined. It eases Dean’s descent some, but it’s still sweet agony, pain white-hot, lighting him up from the inside, synapses misfiring and endorphins rushing as his brain tries to blur the boundaries between pain and pleasure.

His own dick has softened a little with the discomfort, but Cas wraps deft fingers around him and strokes him back to full hardness, knuckles brushing against Dean’s stomach where they’re crushed together and Dean begins to fuck up into his palm, shifting back on his cock, a tiny bit easier now.

Cas’ hands slide from Dean’s dick and hip, palms fitting to the curve of his ass, split apart on Cas’ cock, holding him open so that Cas can start thrusting in earnest, giving Dean no choice but to shape himself around Cas, as he nails Dean with every in and out. Dean’s cock is leaking wet against Cas’ inked skin now, length sliding slick through the mess with every upward drive of Cas’ hips. Cas’ expensive tie is gonna be ruined, but Dean can’t bring himself to even think about regretting it. 

“Cas,” Dean pants against Cas’ mouth, riding the motion of Cas’ next thrust, heat rising through him from balls to belly, “ _ God. _ Thought about this the first time I saw you. Wanted to ride your dick, your face.”

Cas huffs a jerky laugh, rocking his hips up, sinking hard and fast into Dean, making Dean’s whole body quiver, “I know. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Dean grinds his hips in a figure of eight, Cas’ dick pressed right up against his prostate and fuck it’s  _ so _ good, so intense. Heat of their bodies so close together, they move in tandem, shivery breaths and stuttered heartbeats, fingertips clawing, skidding over sweat-damp flesh, “Yeah, ‘cause you are? Shoving a gun in my face when --  _ fuck  _ \-- when I’m mostly naked? Way to be all Freudian, Cas.” 

“Mmmhmm,” Cas agrees, teeth in Dean’s throat, his next words snarled dangerously against Dean’s skin, “Saw you in that towel and just wanted to rip it off and fuck you until you finally  _ shut up _ .”

Lust hits Dean in a dizzying wave, nerves tingling to the end of his fingertips, ripple of chills down his spine, “Never gonna happen, Cas. Never gonna stop giving you a hard time.”

“Fuck,” Cas’ breath hitches when Dean meets him in the middle of a powerful thrust, fucking down hard, ass slapping against Cas’ thighs as they come together, and Dean cries out as Cas’ cock slams against that sweet spot inside. He reaches for Cas’ tie, looping it around his hand a couple of times, yanking Cas where he wants him, black-rimmed blue so close to black-rimmed green that Dean can see everything he wants reflected back at him tenfold, “I’m beginning to enjoy it when you give me a hard time.”

And really, there’s nothing Dean can say to that without declaring his undying love, so instead he grits his teeth against Cas’ hips bucking, cock stretching him deep and wide, pleasure coming so thick and fast that Dean can hardly breathe through it. 

_ Fuck _ he’s close, so goddamn close, “God, Cas.  _ Touch me _ .”

Cas doesn’t argue, one palm leaving Dean’s ass cheek in favor of wrapping around Dean’s cock, stroking fast and rough, a counterpoint to his jagged thrusts, and Dean jolts at the feel of Cas’ fingers, muscles in his abdomen clenching. 

He’s close, so fucking close, white-hot lightning rushing up his spine, “Gonna come Cas, make me come.”

Cas tightens his grip so that Dean is fucking into the tight tunnel of his palm, back onto his cock, completely caught as Cas shoves in deep, up into the core of him until Dean feels useless with it, feels sick with it, feels powerful with it, and it’s  _ everything _ . It’s like he’s gonna come right out of his skin, scorching pleasure so intense as his hips falter, and he comes with an almost-painful jackknife jerk just as Cas captures his lips in an open-mouthed kiss, and then Dean’s spurting thick wet streaks between them and over Cas’ fist as he presses his thumb under the head of Dean’s cock.

“ _ Dean. _ Fuck _ , _ ” The hand on his ass squeezes to the point of pain, Cas’ hips snap upwards, nearly unseating Dean, and then he’s coming scalding hot inside Dean, easing the way for his final flagging thrusts, whole body shuddering, hips finally stilling with a labored breath.

Dean shivers out an airless, “Fuck,” and collapses against Cas, releasing his death grip on Cas’ tie, sticky-hot face pressed into the curve of Cas’ shoulder, sweat and come sticking them together in all the grossest of places and ways.

Cas’ palm releases its hold on Dean’s asscheek, fingertips trailing up his spine and Dean shudders.

_ Jesus fucking Christ.  _

They’re gonna have to disinfect the whole area in the morning. Possibly burn this damn picnic bench. 

“Beer?” Dean asks after a few minutes of blissful silence as they both come down, Cas’ cock softening in his ass. He pushes himself up and off Cas, soft slide of semen trickling down his inner thigh and yep that’s gross; there’s no way he’s not clearing that up ASAP. No threats of pictures or walking through bars this time.

He can’t quite see Cas’ face from this distance, but he doesn’t miss the quick nod yes.

Dean bends at the waist, half-blindly searching through the grass for his underwear, finds Cas’ pants in the process and chucks them at the fucker’s feet, because with the sight that Cas makes right now; boneless and fucked out, legs spread wide and inviting, forearms braced on the table, long line of his neck tilted back to look the stars, Dean’s tempted to jump right back on that pony for another ride. 

He finally,  _ finally _ finds his boxers near the flower bed, and steps into them on still-wobbly legs, nearly yeeting himself right into a struggling patch of begonias when he overbalances, catching himself at the last minute.

Behind him, Cas barely suppresses a soft laugh.

“Dick,” Dean tells him as he strides past and into the house, getting blinded by the fucking security light when it flickers back on the second he steps within range. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


When Dean returns - slightly cleaner for a quick wipedown with a damp dishcloth - with beers in hand (one of which he certainly considered wringing the aforementioned dishcloth into), Cas has his pants back on, but still undone, soft cock visible in the open vee of his fly, nestled in the crook of his thigh. He’s taken his shirt and tie off and he’s lying across the picnic table, bare feet on the bench. Dean’s tempted to make a quip about barns and manners, but instead he just climbs up and lays down next to Cas, leaves the beers in the grass. 

It’s super un-freakin’-comfortable and his ass aches like hell, but there’s something reassuring about just listening to each other breathe. Dean lets his eyes slip close, enjoys the faint spring breeze cooling the sweat on his skin.

The security light clicks off. 

“You know,” Cas says slowly after a few minutes of companionable silence, “I’ve always wanted my own restaurant.”

This is almost Dean’s favorite part of sex with Cas -  _ almost _ . He’s always been a little more open with Dean on the heels of an orgasm and Dean’s a nosy mother(father)fucker, so he’s been able to find out a lot of stuff that the usually tight-lipped gangster keeps locked up in that pretty head of his. 

Usually, it’s all business talk; Dean finding out the structure of his organization, how things work, who Cas’ most loyal employees are, discovering Cas’ philanthropy - because yes, apparently Cas has a soft spot for animals and the homeless - discussing his links to other ‘businessmen’ in the city - Fergus Crowley in gambling, Dick Roman in property and real estate. 

They never really talk about anything personal. They don’t shoot the shit like they’re  _ friends _ . They have the sex part  _ down _ (and up, sideways, in bathrooms, in showers, in their respective offices), and they can talk business pretty easily, but actually  _ talking _ ? For some reason their relationship hasn’t quite reached that level of intimacy yet.

Maybe tonight’s the night.

Dean chooses his words carefully, not wanting to ruin the mood, hungry for every bit of Cas he can get his mouth around, “I’m glad I could help make your dreams come true, Cas.”

“I’m a rather weak cook--”

“--You and me both--” Dean murmurs, curling into Cas’s warmth, cheek resting against his shoulder, breathing in the musky scent of them together. He slides his thigh between Cas’ legs, knee bent just below his groin. 

“--But I’m a rather proficient baker. I could make pies for the dessert menu.”

“Cas,” Dean reprimands and it’s muffled by Cas’ skin, “Don’t you think you’re busy enough as it is…?” His head jerks up when it registers what Cas just said, “Pie? You make pie?”

“Yes,” Cas confirms, head pillowed on his palm, “Why did you think I was at that bake sale?”

Dean shoots him a look in the darkness. He can tell Cas gets the gist. 

“Okay,” Cas concedes, “So it might have  _ appeared _ that I was stalking you, but it was pure coincidence.”

“So what you’re saying is that you saw me all flustered as fuck, out of my element, surrounded by a bunch of stuck-up assholes at our kids’ private school, and you clocked the opportunity to be a dick and took it?”

Seems like a pretty accurate assessment of most of their relationship to be fair.

“Yes,” Castiel says, no ounce of shame, and really, it shouldn’t be a surprise, because Cas has always reveled in Dean’s indignity and awkwardness, “Your inability to hide your emotions in any given situation is rather alluring.”

_ Shoulda squeezed the dirty dishcloth into his beer after all.  _

“You’re an ass,” Dean tells him, then pauses, “Which was your bake? Don’t tell me it was the strudel.”

“The pecan pie.”

“God,” Dean mutters, “You  _ asshole _ .”

Cas laughs, a low rumble that reverberates through Dean’s body where he’s wedged in close, makes his heart stop, turnover, restart. “I’ll make it for you sometime.”

“Well,  _ yeah _ .”

Dean settles back against Cas’ chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. They’re silent for a while, watching gray puffs of cloud slowly drifting by against the inky blackness, until Cas clears his throat, says, “I have another lesson for you.”

“Yeah? Can’t it wait? I’ve got an afterglow going on here.”

“No.”

Dean sighs dramatically, “Fine. What’s the lesson?” 

“Always get the money back.”

Dean thinks back to Cas’ debut appearance, “Pretty sure that was the first thing you taught me, Cas.”

Cas says nothing for a long moment until Dean’s beginning to think that he’s not going to elaborate, but then finally he says, “I’ve decided that I want the original hundred thousand back. Maybe I was a little bit hasty in letting you off so easily. Especially since I no longer have the leverage of your brother’s DNA sample. After all, all you did was drive a truck through the city and I  _ was _ pretty distracted when I wrote it off…” He trails off, and Dean knows  _ exactly _ what he’s thinking. 

Still.

Dean looks up at him in the darkness, scanning his face for any signs of sarcasm or that he’s fucking with Dean, “You cannot be serious.”

If he’s serious, Dean’s gonna throw him the fuck out in the street, half-dressed or not.

“Deadly,” Cas confirms with a flash of straight white teeth in the dark, and Dean’s gonna enjoy rearranging those pearly whites, “You owe me money with interest. With the kind of rates I offer, by the amount of time it’s been... Let’s say about… _ hmmm _ … two million dollars.”

Dean narrows his eyes, shifts so that his face is right above Cas’, props himself up on his elbow, "It'll take me a fucking _ lifetime _ to wash that kind of money for you."

Cas slides a hand into Dean’s hair, pulls him down for a kiss, smiles against his mouth.

"Mmhmm, that's entirely the point."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it! I may be persuaded to do some timestamps in the near future (already have one in my head for Charlie’s wedding and another where Cas and Dean attend a neighborhood watch meeting), but that’s it for the main story! Thank you for your support, you’re all totes amazeballs; couldn't have done it without you all cheering me on, so thank you <3


End file.
